


An Artist's Muse

by blackswans22



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: AU-Human, F/M, Fluff, Language, Romance, Vegebul, artist struggles, pride 'cause it's Vegeta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackswans22/pseuds/blackswans22
Summary: Vegeta is a struggling painter trying to maintain his identity as an artist. With some mild success, he has since lost his inspiration. Bitter and prideful, he attempts to play nice to keep control over his passion when a muse suddenly comes out of nowhere to change his perspective. Only mentioned V/18. B/V pairing*Proud Nominee for the Prince and the Heiress Annual Awards 2019*I'm also on Twitter @blackswans2222😊Happy reading!





	1. Chapter 1

The dressing room lights were especially hot, beating down on his head causing sweat to bead on his face and deep widow's peak. Vegeta wiped the collected wetness away with the back of his hand, the remnants of black paint still visible, and sighed deeply, a begrudging groan forcing its way out, replacing the intense desire to scream until his voice was hoarse.

His agent had insisted, repeatedly, this was a good thing. Any publicity is good publicity. The problem was with whom the publicity would be shared with. He decided to wear his black jeans and black T-shirt, worn around the collar and dotted with a smattering of colorful droplets and smears in a disorganized rainbow of oiled paints, a testament to the copious, toiled hours working at his studio. The lack of interest was frustrating, to say the least, and lately-over the past few years-lately, he noticed a drop of attention in his collections. No more calls asking for updates. No more dotting patrons gushing over his style, willing to dole out huge sums of cash for him to make more.

He knew quite well this train was nearing the station. He just wasn't ready to get off yet and join the masses. He was an artist. And fuck it, if it meant doing something he knew he would hate to at least make an effort to get back on the train.

With another internal pep talk, he opened the small dressing room door to the grinning face of his short, bald-headed, overbearingly encouraging agent who bounced on his heels in excitement, passing a large black coffee to Vegeta's opened hand.

Taking the cup was the only thing keeping him from escaping back into the quiet dressing room and avoiding the whole thing.

"So, you ready, buddy?" Krillin beamed.

"I've told you to stop calling me that." He warned, blowing on the steaming drink to focus his attention elsewhere.

"Aw, c'mon. I've been your agent for long enough. Now, who's my buddy?"

"I have a scalding drink in my hand. Do not make me slip." He cautioned more intently, glaring his dark eyes down.

"Fine. Okay, so it's been arranged that this interview will be a few short answer questions. she didn't tell me what they were, though, but I guess she's a very well known blogger and has her own channel with hundreds of thousands of followers. Who knew so many people liked art." He shrugged as he began walking down the hallway.

"Who knew." Vegeta narrowed his eyes while willing himself to not crush the paper cup in his angry fist as he stalked behind. He knew exactly who she was. He narrowed his eyes at the aggravating memory.

"So I met her. She is hot. You said you knew her before?" Krillin asked over his shoulder.

"Yes." Was the only explanation he could give as the muscles in his cheek clenched with the memories. It had been a year since. One freeing, ranting, screaming, liberating year without her. Seeing her again so soon, however, was as bitter as the coffee burning his tongue.

Approaching the soundstage, two maroon plush, velvet wingback chairs waited for their occupants atop an elegant emerald green rug. A fake bookcase was positioned behind them and to the side of one stood a tall blond-haired woman, her oval, porcelained face illuminated by the phone screen in her manicured palm. Icy blue eyes turned up disinterested until they fell on Vegeta, making him inwardly growl then bit his tongue to prevent her from seeing his perturbance.

"18." He said, heavily forced through gritted teeth.

A smirk graced her lips as she extended her wafty hand. He took it and shook roughly.

"Vegeta." She said, her tone flat, uncaring. He knew that sound. The start of a power play.

Without letting her gain the upper hand, he smirked back wickedly. "I see you made a name for yourself. Perfect for you finding a medium where you can preen in front of a throng of mindless followers as you prattle on with your vapid critique of art."

She snorted at the jab. "You haven't changed. The difference between us now, Vegeta, is that I actually make money doing what I do." She bit back.

Krillin worriedly came between the two, pushing Vegeta back before she could challenge him more.

"Okay, that's enough. We're here for an interview, not a fight." He placated anxiously. Pulling Vegeta to the side, he attempted to reason with the hot-tempered man. "Hey, stop letting her bother you. We need this interview, okay?"

18 shook her blond bob cut with a flourish. "I can pretend to play nice. Can you?" She dared.

He chugged the cooled coffee before crushing the cup and discarding it aggressively. "Let's get this over with." He added darkly.

The chairs, though soft and comfortable, didn't seem to help Vegeta's soured mood as he shifted with irritation, waiting for his cue to be presentable. _Just one interview with her_. He coaxed to himself. _Then I can punch something._

The cameraman adjusted the settings and indicated to the staff the camera was ready. One last flick of her hair, 18 flashed an annoying smile his way and he rolled his eyes until they landed on Krillin at the edge of the green rug, two fingers in a thumbs up. _Krillin is something I could punch_. He thought with anticipation. He heard the countdown. 18 cleared her throat.

"Hello, my fellow art lovers. I'm 18 of '18 Reasons You Wish You Were Me'. Today, we have the opportunity of interviewing one of our local art world's most underrated artists, a man that follows in the footsteps of other artists who have single, timeless names, the likes of Cher or Madonna, the only…. Vegeta." She pronounced in a sickeningly sweet tenor. The camera was focused on her. No one but the stagehands could see Vegeta slowly pulling up the cushioned armrest in a silent rage.

"He is the bane of art critics and admirers alike, with a biting attitude and scowl that scares small children. Despite that, his biggest accomplishment is his astounding art, from his early work in celestial comets to his most recent world-renowned 'Black Hole' series. Incredible work, Vegeta. Kudos to you." The bitterness that roiled up with her fake praise made his chest tighten. He let the mauled armrest go as the camera panned his direction.

"Thank you for that... interesting introduction." He said in attempted civility.

"These are your most well-known attributes, are they not?" She said with a toothy smile.

He forced a smile back and tried to play along. "I don't think I've ever scared children before."

"That is debatable. But perhaps we'll save that for another time. Right now, we're here to discuss your amazing work. Tell me: what inspired the 'Black Hole' series that has gained so much notoriety recently beyond our little corner of the world?" She gazed with her penetrating frosty blues, an inquisitive look on her face. Like a lioness about to strike. She needed to be aware he wasn't one to be intimidated.

He smirked. "I was inspired by an old relationship. This person was particularly… soul-sucking. Not unlike a black hole."

Unaffected by his curt wording, she pressed on. "We all use our experiences to inspire our work, don't we, Vegeta."

"Some more than others."

"I have to admit, I do enjoy your efforts. I do have to ask though, are you aware that some of the pieces are being called 'cute?'"

He cut his eyes to her in question. "'Cute?'" He did not like anything he did to be called cute.

"As in adorable. Your earlier work had brash, harsh strokes. You can almost feel the anger lifting off the canvas. Your most recent series is collected, refined." She enunciated with acidic vinegar disguised as honeyed words.

"I'm not following how this is interpreted as cute."

"Your brushwork is flowy, almost delicate. Is your work geared more for men or women?" She taunted. Not that it should matter. It shouldn't matter. He bit his tongue as the heat rose to his face slowly with the realization that it did matter to him.

"My work is my own. It is there to be enjoyed by whoever values tasteful art." He defended.

"Or who can pay for it. You still haven't made the plunge into publicizing your work en mass to benefit you financially. Is it your arrogance that holds you back?" She pried.

He was thoroughly finished with her antics. The tick came back to his cheek as he shifted in his chair. "I don't think it as arrogance. I think of it more as protective. I would hope those that truly appreciate my efforts are willing to pay for it."

She, too, adjusted but more of a triumphant adjustment, pushing her shoulder forward and holding her head a little higher. "I'll be sure to include your online gallery in my blog for those can pay for your _efforts._"

Not willing to be defeated, he forced a smile again. "I appreciate that, 18."

Her grin widened. "It's the least I can do for someone so talented. I'm sure you won't even need it. Thank you very much for the interview, Vegeta. It's been enlightening."

"It certainly has." He stood to shake her hand again, much harder than necessary. Only he noticed the wince cross her face.

"And we're out." The cameraman announced.

A deep scowl immediately erupted across his features as she shook out her pinched fingers. "You toxic bitch." He hissed, bearing down on her.

18 rolled her eyes, lifting herself from the chair to stare down at him. "Vegeta, don't be so sensitive. It was just an interview." She brushed her skirt down, smoothing the wrinkles.

"That was the worst fucking interview." He seethed.

"Please, it was good for your image. Can you imagine what kind of publicity this will get on my channel? I was being sincere. I will actually plug your gallery. Maybe you'll see some real traffic online." She mocked.

"Fans of my work are more cultured than to watch your channel." He scoffed.

"Oh yes, your highbrow, pretentious fans. Haven't they come to realize what a douche you are and refuse to buy your paintings for the bloated prices you set. You're better off selling your art to Hallmark so they can slap your life's work on greeting cards. At least then you'll actually be making money instead of playing the starving artist card every chance you get." She pulled out her phone fully intentioned to ending the conversation. Her lacquered nails clacked loudly on the screen to his aggravation.

He forced her phone down and glared up into her face. "Go back to analyzing artwork literally painted by monkeys. I'm sure that's where your Master's in Art is useful these days."

She looked at him derisively. "Nice to see you, Vegeta. By the way, I trashed all your supplies. They were collecting dust in my apartment." She turned from him and sauntered down the hall, an assistant at her heel.

"Probably for the best. They were for real artists. They're better off in the city dump than anywhere near you. You would do better finger painting!" He yelled at her back.

"Elitist dick!" She yelled back down the hall.

"Manipulative bitch!" He screeched louder before turning and upending the nearest chair into the fake bookcase, shattering it to splinters.


	2. Chapter 2

With his face planted on the rough, wooden surface of his art table, globs of dried paint digging into his forehead, Vegeta took steady breaths of the oil and lacquered scented air to center himself. His studio was a quiet respite, simply furnished, stocked with all the oils and canvas he needed and housed the best thing he could ever want: solitude.

A steady knock came to the door but he made no move to stand nor say anything to permit entry. The knob turned anyway, despite the lack of welcome, and Krillin shuffled across the stained and dotted floor to open a nearby window.

His bald-headed agent took out a weathered, bleach stained chair before plopping himself down next to Vegeta with a resolved sigh. He tapped the table absentmindedly as he cleared his throat.

"So… you wanna talk about it?" He said cheerfully.

"No." Came the muffled reply into the wooden surface.

"Well, we're gonna." He added without any loss to his optimistic disposition.

He nudged the dark brooding man in the shoulder. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

Vegeta finally raised his head with an exhausted sneer as well as a line of sticky white paint on his brow. "Bad news it is. The set you destroyed is gonna cost us 600 bucks to replace."

He growled as he wiped the paint from his face and glared at it balled on his fingertips. "That shit was not worth 600."

Krillin shrugged. "I'm not gonna argue with either of you. The second bit of bad news: we're banned from that studio. More accurate, you are banned from that studio. I'm not. I have other clients."

The chair squeaked as Vegeta backed himself out of it and trod over to his latest unfinished work: a penciled outline of dark clouds that he had been painstakingly trying to make rain.

Krillin teetered a tube of black paint until it fell with a clatter. He resolved to placing his hands nonchalantly behind his head. "Speaking of other clients, don't you think it's in your best interest-" he began with hesitation.

"Don't." Came the abruptly interrupted response as Vegeta carefully drew more penciled outlines on the canvas.

"To maybe try to do things-" he continued.

"Don't," Vegeta warned again, this time cutting his eyes, staring daggers into his agent's head.

"A bit more like-" Krillin looked off avoiding eye contact.

"For fuck's sake, you say one more word." He paced over, pencil-drawn up like a knife.

"Goku?" He finished anxiously.

The pencil snapped clear in two then clinked on the floor. Vegeta put his fingers to the bridge of his nose in vexation. "I told myself I was going to punch you. Now I have full reason to."

He put his hands up in defense as Vegeta's arm cocked back. "Wait, wait! Before you do, hear me out. Goku is weirdly talented and like you, he just wants to do sculptures."

His arm still pulled back, he scoffed loudly. "That blithering idiot doesn't do sculptures like normal artists. He's a crazed imbecile that giggles at nothing and who barely even has to try."

Krillin put up a finger to make a point. "But he makes art… and sells that art."

He crossed his arms, more annoyed with his rival artist than at the cowering man in front of him. "He makes sculptures of near-naked men posing, all with that same doopy smile of his. I'm not into homoerotica, by the way, so don't suggest it."

"They are muscular men in mid-fight." He defended. "He's over there making the Statue of David and you…" Krillin paused when a flash of disappointment marred the painter's proud features.

"Look, Vegeta, I like your art, I really do. But if you don't find something that sells, we're gonna have a tougher time than it already is. Your funds are running out. The 'Black Hole' series was great. Why don't you do another series?" He suggested carefully.

"Lost my muse," he replied, snorting loudly.

A gleeful smile crossed Krillin's face. "It was 18, right? You're talking about 18? Man, I can't believe you hit that."

He rolled his eyes with a disgusted look. "I wouldn't recommend it. She is a poison."

"One I would wholeheartedly take." His eyes drifted off dreamily.

Reflecting on the awful times with 18 did have its benefits. Her insanity drove him into his studio, awash in hateful thoughts and black paint. He wasn't lying when he compared their relationship to that of a black hole. Her antics were insufferable, stifling, all-encompassing and strangely inspiring. Still, he wouldn't want to go through that again for temporary motivation.

He smirked while drawing back his arm again. "Then I suggest you take the advice of the only rule of the universe."

"What's that?" The agent asked hesitantly.

Vegeta punched Krillin roughly in the arm causing the short man to grab hold of the painful skin and rub it soundly. There was sure to be a decent bruise, he praised himself. "Don't stick your dick in crazy."

Between rubbing, Krillin pinched his eyebrows together in reflection. "But..but you did?"

Returning to his canvas, he picked up another pencil, scratched a few more lines then stood back to observe his work. "And I have been punished for that mistake. I will not let that happen again." He concluded darkly.

* * *

Three uninspired weeks later, Vegeta stared intently at the canvas, still unfinished, still with the same penciled outlines. He could not get the clouds to rain, he didn't give a shit about clouds raining. What he really wanted was something new.

The studio door behind him opened and slammed so quickly, he was startled out of his thoughts to stare incredulously at his agent.

"Don't you know better than to bother someone while they're working?" He spat.

Krillin, who was on the phone giving veiled approval to whoever was on the line, grinned back hopefully. He then asked the listener to hold for a moment, took the phone from his ear and peered intently at the penciled lines.

"What'd you do?" He asked with innocent honestly.

This made Vegeta bristle with accusation. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

He pulled back. "Sorry." Then the gleeful smile returned. Vegeta hated the gleeful smile. It always meant some sort of scheming he knew he wouldn't like.

"So on a better note: I have another interview for you." He beamed while holding his hand over the receiver.

"No." He said while shaking his head fiercely.

"Oh c'mon. It's not 18." He shifted his glance from Vegeta to the phone.

"Is 18 on the phone?" Vegeta asked in irritated skepticism.

"I said it's not 18," Krillin repeated with fervor. "It's her assistant." He corrected brightly.

"I'm going to hit you again." He narrowed his eyes with loathing.

Vegeta heard a loud, trilling hello on the other end. He groaned slightly at the shrillness. Krillin seemed to have gotten the message and returned to the phone.

"Yes, I'm still here. Sorry. What? Can he do the interview?" He asked looking up at Vegeta's rapid shaking head before grinning back at him. "Yeah, he can do it. He'd love to."

Vegeta drew his hand into a tightly balled fist as Krillin got the remaining of the details and hung up. A loud sharp hiss of forced expelled air came out of the shorter man as he doubled over, clutching his stomach while Vegeta smirked over his agent's heaving and sputtering body in satisfied retribution.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my amazing beta BV4ever who doesnt think shes been beta-ing my work but she totally has.

The beat-up 2-door truck came to a grinding halt in front of a posh building, all multilevel brickwork and colorful flowered window boxes, complete with a doorman. Vegeta put the truck in park and stood out front, staring up at the expensive building. If he painted architecture or landscapes, this would be one of them. Krillin ambled out of the passenger seat and winced slightly, his stomach still sore from the sucker-punch to the gut a few days earlier.

"She said 4B. I think they share an apartment or something?" His agent said with uncertainty.

"You better hope the bitch is not here." He warned. _At least this isn't the same apartment complex as before_, he thought with some relief.

They got the approval to go up from the doorman then headed to the elevator to the 4th floor. Vegeta sighed at the apparent opulence that his ex was clearly waving in his face. _The only reason she said to meet here was for me to see this_, he thought bitterly.

He knocked on the cherry stained wood and heard a rushed 'just a minute' beyond it. Vegeta crossed his arms as both men waited.

Seven minutes later, with Vegeta rapping his fingers on his bicep in irksome contemplation of all the things he could be doing than waiting for a woman to open the fucking door, the handle turned and a flushed blue-haired woman opened the portal.

"Sorry, I got a little caught up." She hurriedly, her hair damp and mussed.

"Didn't we have an appointment with you?" He replied in irritation.

"Yeah, and I said sorry. Showers sometimes take a while. What the fuck do you want from me?" She retorted tersely.

He grunted at her response. "Can we come in or not?"

"Come in, your highness." She added sarcastically as she waved her hand allowing them entry.

In the entryway, Krillin stuck out his hand in embarrassment. "I'm Krillin. We talked on the phone. Please excuse him. He needs to learn manners."

The painter scoffed as he took in the obvious success of 18's handiwork whoring herself to the online masses._ This other girl should probably be careful before she's eaten alive._ He raised his lip in loathing.

"It's fine. Bulma. And you must be Vegeta?" She thrust out her own hand to him and he took it without thinking.

She chuckled a little as she lead them into the living area. "Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?"

"Beer," Vegeta said while staring disapprovingly at a half worked canvas in the corner. The painting of several colorful butterflies done in acrylics screamed first-year art student. _Amateur_.

Bulma nodded, passing Krillin who was engrossed in his phone.

"Oh, shoot," he declared in dramatic preoccupation, "I need to be somewhere. Not here. I'm gonna go. I'll get a cab." He shifted on his heels, edging his way back to the front door. Bulma craned her head beyond the kitchen with her eyebrows drawn at his sudden proclamation while Vegeta scowled.

Before either of them could protest, the front door slammed behind him and Vegeta stared blankly at the blue-haired woman.

"Well, that was weird." She proclaimed while handing him an open bottle.

"If you ever have to deal with him again, you'll get used to it," he replied with a grunt.

"Okay." She replied with confusion in her tone as she plopped herself down on the sofa and patted the spot next to her. "You can sit."

The couch bowed a little as he got awkwardly comfortable at the far end of the couch. Bulma sipped her beer and watched him. He adjusted uneasily.

"So, you're a painter." She began.

He narrowed his eyes. "What gave it away."

"You don't have to be a dick. I just wanted to make small talk." She scoffed.

"I thought we were doing an interview?" He replied tersely.

"We are, I just wanted to make small talk first."

He sighed at how asinine the practice of small talk was. "Whatever. So you're 18's assistant?"

"No, I'm her partner." She corrected.

He drew his eyebrows together curiously. "What kind of partner?"

Bulma drew back in defense. "Not that kind. Her business partner. Gods, why do men think that when a woman says she's partners with another woman, they have to be lesbians?"

He smirked into his beer. "That thought only briefly crossed my mind."

"Well, we're not." She snapped.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. So you help her run her ridiculous hobby of pretending to know about art?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "You are so full of yourself. Yes, I work with her. I run the technical side. The filming, editing, music, that kind of stuff. It's an art in its own way." Bulma put forth.

Vegeta tried not to roll his eyes a second time at her attempt at finding common ground. He began to feel more uncomfortable at her blatant staring.

"You don't look like a painter." She mused out loud.

"And what does a painter look like?" He played along.

She scooted over and took a bit of the fabric from his sleeve in her fingertips for observation. "I mean, you have the shirt covered in paint but it's hiding all that muscle. I guess I didn't imagine painters being so fit." She began to lift it teasingly. He brushed her hand away at the unwanted contact. A red hue crept across his face.

"Painting can be like a regiment, requires dedication and focus." He said, trying to maintain composure. "Much like physical fitness. I like to exercise to maintain focus. Perhaps you should try it sometime." He added, making the connection between the two. She ended up just getting angry.

She lifted herself from the couch in a huff.

"Excuse me? Did you just call me fat?" She accused.

"I did not say that." He defended.

"You said I should work out more."

"I said you should try physical fitness to see how it applies to a strict, personal commitment to better one's self. You have taken my words and misconstrued them."

Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe because that was the underlying tone."

"It was your own interpretation. You initially rope me into your judgment that all men think women who are partners are lesbians. Then you accuse me of calling you fat when I casually suggest you try exercising to find dedication and focus. is this how you treat all your guests or is it just me?" He declared.

She stood stunned for a minute and Vegeta waited to see if he was going to be thrown out of the apartment. Finally, she smiled with surprise.

She chuckled before downing the rest of her beer. "How about we get to that interview now?"

With a nod, he finished the remaining liquid in one gulp as he stood, following her into a bedroom converted to an office.


	4. Chapter 4

__He had no idea what to expect from this new interview. At least it didn't seem like it would be as infuriating as the last one.

One half of the room was lined with large computer monitors and hardware on shelves, the low hum of electronics working through their processes. The opposite side was dedicated to an expensive camera setup and lighting apparatus poised on a similar set to the one he destroyed: two pink chairs that probably were more aesthetically pleasing than comfortable, a round glass coffee table in the center and an obnoxiously huge background with 18's logo for her joke of a show.

Bulma walked around to adjust the camera settings and turn on the lighting, positioning them just so. Vegeta turned away to stare at nothing in particular rather than groan loud enough for her to hear his displeasure with the ridiculousness of the whole experience.

He cocked his head curiously. "Aren't you just the tech person? Why are you doing the interview?" He inquired.

She blew a wayward strand from out of her blue eyes. "I'm not just the tech person, I am _the_ tech person. I am the best at my job, bar none." She replied confidently as her deft hands clacked across the keyboard to initiate the video editing software. "And as for the interview, 18 wanted another conversation with you for the channel. But since you won't talk to her, it has fallen to me. You've gained some interest, although you probably don't care. More people wanted to know about you."

"And why is that?" He crossed his arms defensively.

Bulma slyly glanced up at him. "Because your conversation went so well before. People can't help watching cringe-worthy videos."

He forced a burst of air from his nose indignantly at realizing he had become the target of mockery, tightening his arms across his chest.

Ignoring his provoked stance, she waved her hand to the now brightly lit set. "Why do you take a seat? I'm gonna go get somewhat presentable."

He cringed at how the chairs seemed to have gotten pinker under the hot lamps.

"You're going to make me sit in the pink chair." He said with a detestable tone.

"Yes, I'm going to make you sit in the pink chair." she mocked with a humored tone as she ran a brush through her near dry hair and added a shade of dusty pink lip gloss to her puckered lips.

"Aren't there any other chairs in this apartment?" He complained.

"There are. But they're office chairs or dining chairs. Are you going to be a little bitch the whole time?"

"I am not-" He stopped midargument seeing her eyes twinkling as she bit her tongue between her teeth and realized she was playing with him. He rolled his eyes with a sneer. "You're messing with me."

Bulma sniggered, coming up to his side and gripping his bicep with a friendly squeeze. "Loosen up. Just relax. You're so uptight."

He was not wrong in his assumptions of the comfort of the chairs. The back dug into his spine as he tried to find a decent way to sit without looking stiff.

Clearly made for more of a feminine figure, Bulma seated herself and managed to cross her legs without issue. "First off, before we start-"

"Is this going to be more small talk?" he interrupted, his patience wearing thin.

"Would you shut up?" She chided. "As I said: before we begin, I would like to compliment you on your pieces. I really love the comet series. I did my research. It was your first series. Which is amazing considering how clean and controlled it was. Beautiful."

He stopped his movements to draw his dark eyebrows together, unexpectant of the praise. "I don't much care for it anymore." He mumbled with moderate suspicion of her true intentions.

She pressed on. "Well, you are your harshest critic. Can't you take the compliment for what it is?"

He searched her face for any trace of ridicule or false intentions. Her blue eyes shone only warmth and sincerity. He held her gaze for a few lingering moments before finally murmuring a genuine 'thank you.'

She pushed her hair behind her ears. "Are you all set?" She asked cheerfully.

He sighed at the memory of the last time. "Ready to get this done." He said with exhaustion in his voice.

She cleared her throat and clicked the remote for the camera in her hand as she smiled toward the lens.

"Hello, art lovers. This is Bulma Briefs of '18 Reasons You Wish You Were Me.' I am here with another riveting discussion with a local artist, Vegeta. He is known for his incredible work depicting celestial realism using oils as his medium. Is that correct?"

He gave a whispered smile of relief at not being bombarded with an antagonistic question right out of the gate. The night was still young, however.

"Yes, I do oil paintings." He confirmed, tenseness in his posture.

"I'm curious to know, do you happen to purchase any particular colors of oil paint in bulk?"

Vegeta pulled back in surprise at the unusual question. A welcome surprise to say the least. "Yes, I have a large supply of black, red, white. I also tend to gravitate to navy blues and dark purples."

"And is there a reason you stick with oil paints instead of water-mixable oils? Doesn't all that turpentine go to your head?" She joked, good-natured.

He nodded in agreement. "Without proper ventilation, yes. But I like the smell. It's familiar. It's traditional. I have tried other mediums. I always seem to go back to that, though."

"It's a personal preference," Bulma said with understanding.

"It is." He began relaxing in his seat.

"With your use of a more traditional route, I assume it takes quite a bit of time to get these pieces out?"

He pursed his lips in thought. "I've never logged hours, but yes, it takes a very long time."

"Is that one of the reasons why your work is so expensive?" She inquired.

This touched a nerve. He leaned forward and threaded his fingers together in his lap. "Let me ask you this: what do you think an artist's work is worth? The amount of effort and time that goes into coming up with the idea in my head, drawing it out, finding the right colors, right brushes, the painstaking precision to get the final touches to my satisfaction. That is difficult to put to value. If anything, I'm being generous with the cost of my work." He said defensively.

He was pleasantly surprised when Bulma nodded in agreement with an appreciative smile. "You put your heart and soul into them."

He brought himself back to a calmer disposition upon realizing how much more professional she was than 18. She seemed honestly considerate and interested in his answers. He still maintained his guard, though, considering if it was all just an act for the camera.

Bulma tilted her head as she continued. "And what of people that take inspiration from your work and make copies to sell to the masses at a cheaper price?"

He tried not to groan under his breath. "The ones that buy kitschy knockoffs are probably the ones that cannot tell the difference between an original and a fake. It does not matter to them. I put my work out for those that can truly appreciate the struggles that go into my craft. I create for those that want an original. That is my target audience."

Bulma's kind gaze never left his. "You seem to enjoy the great unknown. Why did you decide to paint depictions of space?"

"I've always been interested in what lies beyond this planet. When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut, to be an explorer and discover new worlds. As I got older, I came to realize our capabilities for space exploration were limited. So I altered my interest and began exploring space in my own head. The possibilities I could think of were endless." His mouth moderately turned up at the reflection.

She hummed dreamily at his words. "Beautifully said. I truly appreciate you taking the time out of your day to chat with me. Thank you." She held out her hand.

"My pleasure." He shook it without hesitation.

Pulling her hand back, Bulma clicked the 'end record' button and waited for a moment for the red light to turn off.

With a pleased exhale, she grinned his way. "All done. How was that?"

"It wasn't completely detestable." He admitted.

"Good. I'm glad." Bulma went over to the computer and began uploading the file to the opened editing program. She looked back over her shoulder as Vegeta made his way to the front room. "By the way, I checked out your online gallery. Some of the links were dead and a few pieces that were already sold were still up for sale."

He rubbed his temples as his calm demeanor changed to the stirrings of anxiety in wondering how the woman was going to edit their video. "I'm not in charge of the website." He said dismissively.

"I assumed. If you'd like, I could help you with it."

"Why?" He asked suspicious of her motives.

Bulma casually waved her hand. "Call it my good deed. I need some positive karma coming my way."

"It's your time you're wasting." He added flatly.

"Great. Here's my number." She thrust a neon orange sticky note into his palm before he could protest. "Give me a call when an opening in your busy schedule comes up."

Fiddling with his keys in one hand and the orange slip in the other, he grunted noncommittally as he left her apartment. He was still unsure of the woman. She seemed kindhearted but it could all be a very convincing ruse to make him look foolish.

"Don't hold your breath." He remarked to himself as he turned over the ignition in his truck.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks and he didn't call her. He was far too obsessed to. He made an effort at eating. He slept a few hours before restlessness woke him. He tried maintaining a routine of exercise to still his tumultuous mind. Most of the time, he just stared at the unfinished work.

He hated realizing the passion he once had, fueled by the praise of his mastery when he first showed promise to hateful loathing in a dead-end relationship feeding his best work near the end, was gone. The drive to do better and enjoy the challenge of creation from nothing had ebbed over the years. If his eyes could hone the intensity by which he stared at the lack of progress, lack of inspiration, lack of ease, the canvas would have surely ignited.

Instead of spontaneously combusting, however, Vegeta grew more angry with himself through every stilted breath, cursing the block on his mind, until his hand drew to shaking, tight fists.

With one swift drawback and follow-through, his fist went into the linen of his latest incomplete work, breaking the easel it rested on and pulling him forward when he lost his footing. He fell into the piece with a crash and out of sheer frustration, Vegeta screamed in a bitter rage as he grabbed hold of the broken canvas, hoisting it into the air then smashing it down repeatedly on the remnants of the shattered easel until his art was nothing more than an unrecognizable, tattered mess.

He slumped shakily to the floor and took deep inhales to calm himself as he placed his face in his hands. With his eyes closed, he counted his breaths. On the 54th intake in, he heard the distant distinct trill of his doorbell. His eyes shot open in bewilderment.

The front door creaked open to the smiling face of the blue-haired woman on his stoop. He looked at her, puzzled as he held the portal only half-open.

"Hi there." She said brightly, albeit moderately shivering in a bulky sweater and jeans in the chilly morning air.

"Oh, the assistant to the devil." He replied, leaning up against the doorframe.

"Partner to the devil. Bulma." She corrected with a smirk.

"Right. What the hell are you doing here? How did you get this address?"

"Krillin gave it to me. I'm here because _someone_ didn't call. I wanted to help you with your website, remember?" She hitched up the large backpack that seemed to be weighing her down, her small hands gripping the straps at her shoulders.

"Well, you wasted your time in coming over. I don't know shit about the website or how to alter it." He said dismissively as he slowly closed the door.

She put her hand on the door, halting the closure. "Lucky for you, Krillin gave me all I need to fix it."

"Then what are you doing here? You have all those computers at your home. Go there." He said exasperatedly.

"I know. Just thought I could come over and keep you company." She took a step forward.

He blocked her way and cut his eyes. "Why?"

She stepped back and swayed awkwardly on her heels. She looked away from him. "Krillin told me you may be lonely." She softly admitted.

_I'm going to kill him_, Vegeta thought vengefully as he watched her chew her lip and realized immediately she looked piteous. He grew angry at her sorrowful expression. "First off, I am not lonely, I happen to like being alone. And second, both you and that overbearing nanny need to stay the hell out of my business and fuck off."

Her mood shifted from taken aback to playfulness. "So, you're not inviting me in?" She tilted her head in mock offense.

He didn't understand this girl. "No." He said with gruff finality as he slammed the door roughly.

Through the wood, he could hear shuffling on the other side. Resolved that she was finally leaving, he stopped his stride when he heard her loud muffled voice.

"Fine. Then I guess I'll sit out here and work. I brought my laptop." She said defiantly.

"Do what you want. Freeze to death for all I care." He loudly shot back.

"Computers do better in cold weather anyway." She retorted.

He roughly scratched his scalp in irritation, stomping back into his studio to find the destroyed remains of his earlier tantrum still littering the floor. Attempting to center himself, he let out several breaths as he picked up wood and cloth and piled it in a corner.

Getting the broom out, he swept a few times before his thoughts went back to the woman outside. He didn't get her. She was irksome. Attractively irksome.

With a rumbling growl, he stomped back over to the front and flung the door open, startling the woman who had to catch her computer before it upended onto the concrete.

"Well come in if you must." He hissed as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

Bulma flung her heavy bag over her shoulder, carrying her laptop in her arm with an endearing smile. "Aw, what a gentleman. I knew you weren't the kind of guy to let a girl die on your doorstep."

"You don't know what kind of guy I am." He replied tight-lipped as he closed the door behind her.

"Wow, kinda sparse in here. Does Krillin know you live like a hermit?" She said as her head swiveled to take in the small space.

Vegeta prided himself on minimalism. Less clutter meant less distraction. He also didn't really have company over so the role of the host was a foreign concept.

"If you are uncomfortable, you are more than welcome to leave. I know it's not quite what you're used to from that overpriced hipster complex you and the demon live at." He replied tersely.

"I'm fine. I find your hovel charming. Cozy, even." She teased.

"Are you just here to make jokes at my expense?" He was beginning to lose his patience with her.

"No. I also would like to try and be your friend." She said over her shoulder as she dropped herself ungracefully on his dark grey couch.

He stared icily until he turned his back to her. "Don't get in my way."

The next hour went by quickly. Vegeta was in and out of his studio, cleaning up the destruction he created and taking it to the garbage bin outside while making a conscious effort to close the door each time to avoid her scrutiny. His blue-haired invasion sat on the cushion with her legs crossed, deeply invested in her task than to look up. His cheek muscles twitched rhythmically at the sound of her incessant clacking.

Finally, when the last pieces of splintered canvas protruded from the trash bag and he closed the door to his personal space, she was looking at him curiously.

"Hey, is that your studio?"

"Yes." He stated flatly.

"Can I see it?" She said with bubbly enthusiasm.

"Absolutely not." He frowned.

"Why?" She questioned, dejected.

"Because it's private, that's why." He replied stern.

She raised her eyebrows, conceding. "Okay, geez. You don't have to get all huffy."

Vegeta walked across the tight living room, bag in tow and was just at the back door when her spritely voice called him back. "Can you help me with something?"

With a groan, he rubbed his face. "I don't know a fucking thing about the website."

"No. Not the website, the paintings on it."

"What about them?"

"Can you confirm which ones are sold so I can adjust it." She looked over the back of the couch expectantly.

He dropped the bag loudly on the floor and strode over. Viewing the screen, he thrust his finger at several on the display. "That one, that one and that one."

She made her adjustment and sat up straight, priding herself on a job well done. "Great. I've fixed it so when people actually buy the pieces, it says sold instead of still available. That's better, right?"

"Sure."

She hummed while raising her arms, the tight muscles in her back popping before letting out a contented sigh. "I'm hungry. Would you like to go to lunch with me?" She asked giving him a side-eye.

He shouldn't go. So much time had been wasted between the failure in progress and her impromptu visit. He should have said 'no, I'm busy, get the fuck out.'

Instead, he answered with, "I could eat." He was surprised at himself as the words left his lips. Her playfully coy attitude shut down any other thoughts of rejecting the bothersome blue-haired woman. _What do I have to lose?_

Bulma gave him a dazzling smile. "Cool. You're driving."


	6. Chapter 6

She suggested pizza. He didn't really eat pizza. He hardly ate at all lately. When they were seated across from one another, he mechanically chewed on the cheese and bread, half-listening to her and half surprised at himself for finding her tolerable. She never stopped talking. Sipping a soda or in between bites of her own slice, Bulma's mouth never stopped moving. Her chatter was animated and dramatic. She was witty and funny. Vegeta found himself on more than one occasion actually cracking a smile.

With an exaggerated sip, dredging up the last of her drink, Bulma place the cup down and cocked her head observing him.

"I feel like all I've done is talk this whole time." She declared.

"Maybe because you have."

"What's on your mind?" She inquired, putting her cheek into the heel of her hand and resting her elbow on the table.

For what he had gathered about her, Bulma was completely unlike 18. _18_. His thoughts seemed to annoyingly travel back to her.

"So how is the she-demon?"

"You really don't like her." She said with a giggle. "She's good. The channel takes a lot out of both of us to keep running. She's fun to work with. But, I don't really see her that much when we're not working on a video. We may be roommates but 18 is hardly ever home."

His eyeline drifted off in contemplation of how in the world 18 could ever be considered 'fun.'

Bulma must have noticed his wandering mind when she added casually, "She's mostly out searching for random men to feed her insatiable sex addiction."

He blinked at her in surprise.

She stuck out her tongue. "Kidding." She laughed. "But, really, it seems there have been those occasional flings where she's sucked the life force from her victims until they're resentful, hollow bodies of their former selves." She grinned wickedly at him with heavy implication before fishing for an ice cube in her cup.

He groaned begrudgingly with the realization that she had been informed of his former tryst. "How much do you know?" he muttered.

"Enough," she replied, crunching on the ice. "It's mostly one-sided. You're more than welcome to give me your take on it."

"I'd rather not." He looked off with a resentful expression.

"Okay." She responded, letting it go. "Through all her rantings, though, I do see some truth."

He raised his focus back on her, morbidly curious. "Like what?"

"That you are a prideful, snobbish artist with a bad attitude and no sense of humor."

He snorted at the account of his traits. "Anything else?" He smirked.

"She also said you were terrible in bed." She added bluntly. "But I don't have anything to base that on." She smirked back, cracking a large cube between her teeth.

He tried to will himself to not turn red but he felt his face get warmer anyway. "I'm not even going to give that an answer."

He shifted uncomfortably as she chuckled. After a few moments, he noticed her face change to melancholy.

She gazed at him with her saddened eyes. "Why didn't you call me? You lose my number?" Her voice sounded hurt.

"No." He immediately knew this was not the right thing to say.

She winced. "Oh, that's worse. That would mean you deliberately chose not to."

"I was preoccupied." He tried to reason.

She hummed in vague understanding. She tilted her head, a more purposeful look on her features. "Why did you let me come into your house today?" She asked.

"You were annoying," he stated honestly.

"You could have told me to leave."

"I did."

"More forcefully. You could have refused to open the door. Why did you?" Her eyes narrowed. He could tell she was trying to get to the heart of his intentions.

"You were working on the website." He said less convincingly, losing more control over his dismissive, vague reasons.

She pursed her lips in thought. He was thankful she stopped asking. She swirled the ice with her straw. She finally looked back, a determination in her eyes.

"Do you ever go out to lunch with other people?"

The tick in his cheek was back. He knew the answer. He never went out with anyone without being coerced in some way. Even then, he always hated it. He preferred to be alone. And yet he was here. With her. Her persistence was intriguing.

"No. You are one of very few." He murmured his admission.

A slow smile trailed across her lips like she had just uncovered a wonderful secret as well as the beginnings of a blush. _Pretty._

She sighed happily as she picked up her trash and discarded it. "Ready to go?" She asked expectantly.

Bulma playfully punched him in the arm when he stared at her in confusion. "My car is at your house. You drove, remember?"

* * *

The five-minute drive went too quick for his liking. She had touched his hand tentatively as it rested near the gear shift. She then lingered longer as she curled her small finger with his the whole drive back.

He shut the driver's side door as she exited the passenger seat and stood on the sidewalk staring at her feet. Vegeta walked over slowly, unsure of what to do.

"I would really like to get to know you." she blurted out suddenly.

He drew his eyebrows together while turning away. "Why me?"

"I really like your art. To be honest, I've known about you for a little while. I didn't really grow up around a lot of creativity. My family is more into engineering and science. I tend to think more logically. I wanted to see things differently for a change. I know one other artist. We've been friends since we were kids. And then I found 18," he winced at her name, "about 8 months ago and she taught me more about local artists. She showed me your work. Talked about you." She confessed.

His dark eyes drifted to the side, slightly wary of how much she knew about him. _Nothing that deters her, though_, he realized.

"I like this world that you're all in and I'm pretty content to be a part of it, even if it's just on the technical side. I would like to get to know you 'cause I think there's more to you than all of this." She indicated with a flourish around him and he tried to adjust his posture from looking so suspicious and tense. "I saw something in our interview. You seemed more relaxed. You opened up, if only for a moment."

He frowned at her assessment. "You're a nice girl. But I'm not looking for any sort of relationship." He said dismissively, wanting to make things abundantly clear.

"Neither am I." She assured confidently. "How about a friend?"

"I'll think about it."

* * *

After she left, Vegeta entered the quiet, empty house and laid down on the couch with his arm over his eyes. He noticed the time and realized with a vexed groan that he was 4 hours past when he should have been in the studio painting something. Sketching. Inventorying his supplies. Anything to keep to his routine. Instead, he remained motionless on the sofa, willing his body to be absorbed into the soft fabric to prevent himself from getting up.

He preoccupied his mind further with vengeful plans of how he was going to repay the 'kindness' of his agent on disclosing his address and state of being to a complete stranger when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

A flash of orange followed by an instantaneous synaptic flutter of a smile crossed his thoughts. He cut his eyes to the note, ignoring its allure, and meandered to his studio, pulling out brushes, flicking the dry bristles over his thumb and running his other hand over the assortment of tubed paints in mild distraction. Her voice whispered across his thoughts.

_Why didn't you call me?_

I forgot about you.

He began pulling the tubes from the shelves and arranging them by color. He tossed some of the used tubes in the trash- black, red, white.

_Why did you let me in your home?_

You were annoying. No. You wanted to come in. I can't fathom why.

His hands worked deftly, on autopilot, the shades presented in an orderly fashion from red to indigo.

_Do you ever go out to lunch with other people?_

I don't much like other people. You were bearable.

His hands found several tubes of different shades of blue. He slowed his arrangement speed to focus on positioning them by hue. An unopened teal stuck out for some reason.

_How about a friend?_

I don't need friends.

The unopened teal paint in hand, Vegeta absentmindedly walked around the small house and retrieved the orange sticky note with her name and number etched in curving script.

You are so stubborn and nosy.

_Admit it, you want to see me again._

He added her to his phone contacts, said her name to himself and clicked the phone icon.

I guess I could try to be friends.

He clenched and unclenched his fist, anxious with every trilling ring. He uncapped the paint and squeezed until it beaded at the end in the same familiar color. He could see her irises in the oil.

He should be trying to paint.

It was well past his routined time to work.

He cringed wondering if it was too soon to call.

She answered after the third ring.

"Hello?" Came her familiar voice over the speaker.

"Hi." came his strained one. "It's Vegeta."

"I'm really happy you called." She said. He could hear the joy in her words.

He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips and the feeling of a weight lifted.


	7. Chapter 7

Autumn had arrived lazily with days of cold winds and colder rain. It didn't matter much to him. He spent more of his time inside his home, warmed by the electric heater and her daily phone calls.

Curiosity had gotten the better of him and he just wanted to see if she'd answer. After the first phone call, they talked for a few minutes, then 10 minutes, then 30, then the full hour. He hadn't realized how fast an hour could go by. Her voice, although shrill and over dramatic at times, was strangely calming.

A few days would pass, Vegeta would try to draw or paint, get distracted and end up calling. She always picked up. He never really knew what to say but she was more than happy to fill in the gaps in conversation.

If they weren't on the phone, she would stop by for a little while with a thoughtful cup of coffee or take out. She felt he wasn't eating enough. He had no real grounds to disagree.

Her presence was a soothing change and though he still stressed over the pressures of his work, or lack thereof, having her around made those pressures appear not as daunting. Though he liked being alone, he didn't necessarily feel alone.

The grey wisps of clouds pushed against the house as a smattering of rain pattered relentlessly on the window panes. Bulma had been lounging on his couch for a while, sprawled out like a contented lazy cat. He noticed she had done that more often; made herself at home. It wasn't entirely disagreeable.

Typing away at her computer, she hummed to various songs playing at a low volume on the television radio station.

Seated at his desk chair facing her, Vegeta sighed in concentration, trying to properly outline his subject on his large drawing pad just right as he glanced her way then back down.

"What are you drawing?" She looked up curiously under teal brows.

"Nothing." The charcoal pencil in hand traced a finer line at a high cheekbone.

She pushed herself up and tilted her head. "You keep looking at me. Are you drawing me?"

He squinted his eyes at her sudden change in posture. "Maybe. Now shut up. The more you talk, the uglier I'll make you." He responded low, fixated on his task. Her lips on the page had the fullness they needed.

"You are drawing me. Can I see it?" She said gleefully, scooting closer to him.

He pulled the pad closer to himself in defense. "No. It's not done."

She sat back in petulant huff, relenting. "I didn't take you for a portrait artist."

"I'm not. Just waiting for you to leave so I can go back in my studio." He said halfheartedly. He didn't really want her to leave. He wasn't done yet.

She craned her head and stared at the forbidden room. "Are you ever gonna let me in there?" She asked in playful longing.

"No. Now, shut up and sit still, woman." He grunted to himself in mild frustration. One part just wasn't coming out right.

She was silent for all of 3 minutes before starting up again.

"What about me are you drawing."

He groaned exasperatedly. "Your face. It's just grotesque enough to be good material." He jested with a smirk. He smudged lines around her jawline, shadowing the spaces around her neck.

She scoffed loudly as she threw the only throw pillow on the couch at him. "Dick."

He caught it effortlessly and held eye contact with her smiling face for a few more moments, frowned down at his work before setting it aside facedown on the desk with an irritated growl. He kneaded his fingertips into his eyelids.

She came over and tried lifting the drawing pad nonchalantly. "What's wrong?"

Vegeta placed a hand firmly on the paper, eyeing her as she looked away innocently. "I don't know." He lied. He knew perfectly well what was wrong.

"Try something different, then." She suggested.

"I'm out here, drawing portraits, aren't I? This is not something I usually do."

She shrugged her shoulders as she meandered to the kitchen. Her steps padded across the tiled floor in socks only as he heard her shamelessly open his fridge that she had personally stocked with drinks and snacks. Bulma had come over unannounced only several weeks before but had since made herself a common entity in his personal space at least once a week, citing that she didn't like being at the apartment all alone. It was too quiet, too lifeless, she said. Why she wanted to hang out with a silent and often unmoving, engrossed-in-his-work painter, he couldn't really understand her logic. But her presence wasn't unwelcome.

She came back, a dripping beer in hand that she opened over the floor, little droplets of carbonated alcohol and condensation dotting the tile, much to his perturbance.

The only thing that really bothered him about her so far was her messiness as he got up for the second time that visit to grab a paper towel off the counter and wiped the floor of the sticky residue.

A popular song came on and she sang a few lines in between sips. He chuckled at her inability to sing along in tune but at a volume loud enough for him to hear.

He shook his head as he winced a little when the singer reached a higher range and she tried to replicate it off-key. "I think we've found something you're bad at."

She looked over her shoulder quizzically then at the tv radio he pointed to. She snorted loudly with a laugh. "Fuck you."

She proceeded to sing louder and more obnoxiously to the song. "I like singing." She said in between choruses. "I don't care if I'm bad."

"It's something you could learn. To carry a tune." He put forth as he sat down next to her, his own beer in hand.

"I don't care. I enjoy it and that's all that matters." She responded, whipping her chin up, grinning haughtily.

They sipped as the song ended and a new one started up, more bubbly pop than the last. The beginning infectious lines were the sickeningly sweet, catchy kind that even he was familiar with the melodious hook when it played incessantly at the market or the art supply store he occasionally had to go to.

She nearly choked on her sip with glee, put down the drink, and shot up in earnest as she belted out the lyrics and swayed with the beat. Her hands waved over her head as she did an ungraceful twist in place.

Vegeta hid his mouth behind his hand as his eyes widened, watching her dance in her uncoordinated fashion in his living room. "Oh, Gods, found another thing."

Bulma turned back to him with a precocious grin as she threw up her middle finger. "It's fun." She insisted.

"It looks dangerous. Are you sure you're not going to hurt yourself?" He said with a sly smirk.

"Are you joking with me?" She playfully mocked, sashaying to the beat.

"It's an honest concern on whether I need to have emergency services at the ready."

Bulma stopped moving as a wicked grin crept across her face. "You've insulted me." She said in feigned offense. "You've insulted me and now you're going to dance with me."

He actually found himself chortling. "No fucking way."

"You're always so on edge. C'mon, loosen up. I bet you can actually be fun." She came over and grabbed at his hand. "Dance with me."

His once confident smirk dropped to that of abject horror as she pulled him from the safety of the couch. Bringing his features back to defiance, he crossed his arms and stuck up his chin. "I don't know how." He tried as a last-ditch effort.

Undeterred, Bulma used her hands like crowbars to uncross his tightly bound arms with effort. "No one does. Or at least most people don't. But it also doesn't matter. It's just supposed to be fun." She managed to get him to hang his arms stiffly at his sides. "Dance with me or I won't come over anymore." She coyly warned, her hands on her hips.

He leaned in while narrowing his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up at the ultimatum. "What a scary threat."

She thrust out her hands to her sides dramatically. "I'm just asking for a little movement. A hip. Snap your fingers. Bob your head. Something."

The pop song had ended and a slower song replaced it in the background, crooning over a love found unexpectedly, giving the singer life and purpose. Vegeta sighed, embarrassed but relenting, and swayed awkwardly in place. Bulma giggled lightly to herself as she took his hanging arms and placed them at her waist.

Heat rose to his face at her sudden proximity and she, in turn, brought her own arms around his neck, swaying gently with him to the music.

Near the end, she took his hand and made him twirl her under his palm to then bring her body back to him, her hands on his chest. She looked up with her big, smiling eyes and he finally saw what was missing in the drawings. The sparkle was back, from the first time he saw it at their interview, on the drive back from lunch, in his arms now. He tried to ingrain that look to memory.

She chuckled lightly as the song finished with an instrumental flourish. Leaning in, she gave him a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek, her delicate lips pressed on his skin.

As she drew back, the sparkle was still there, warmly gazing with her ocean eyes. "Thank you for the dance." She whispered. "I knew you could be fun."


	8. Chapter 8

Soft yellowed light illuminated his workspace in a buttery glow as the day's hours drawled into midnight. The wind picked up every once in a while to howl against the window but otherwise, all was quiet, like the painter himself.

A fresh canvas on a new easel stared back at him: clean, pristine white, and full of possibilities. Swirling asteroids and stars gathered by the millions in his mind's eye and covered the fabric momentarily, only to vanish then reappear in some other form as he tried to fixate on what he would do next. A distraction, a very distinct blue-haired distraction, clouded his focus more, however, as he pretended to not notice its slow, gradual influence.

He had danced with her. He had never danced with anyone before. It was mind-boggling at how the minx managed such a feat.

Her lithe frame in his hands, body pressed soft against him, her lips on his cheek caused him to smile in reflection. In her eyes, the warmth remained poised on him and he couldn't quite figure out why she continued to look at him that way.

The middle of the canvas beckoned as Vegeta found the tube of teal blue, squeezed out a generous ribbon onto a well-used palette, along with darker shades of blue and white. His medium tip sable-hair brush swept across the colored oil and grazed the fabric lightly in the center. His careful hand pushed a little more as a distinct circle formed. He made a similar circle near the first one then stood back. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but the teal just didn't look the same. Without letting it dry, he added black to the center of the teal circles. He made a note to practice.

Little over a week had passed since he willingly let his guard down for her. He had noticed he'd been doing that more and more lately. She still visited a few days over the past week and had a habit of trying to force him out of his comfort zone with little displays of innocent fun that he would initially fight against rather than participate until he eventually relented under her sweetly beguiling gaze. She had a way of convincing him. Her antics never went smoothly in the beginning, there was always a bout of defiance, yet he was finding it incredibly difficult to say no.

At that moment, while staring at the only addition he'd made thus far, he sighed long through his nose and rubbed his weary face. His attention drifted where he happened to notice the small blinking red light on his phone. Despite it being nearly all the way across the room, the soft blink was like a beacon, calling for him to respond.

Flicking on the display, a simple message, sent hours ago, waited for an answer._ Meet me at the park tomorrow, 11:30, okay? I have a surprise for you._

He conceded to the text with an even simpler _okay._

Despite being already apprehensive of surprises, he knew that if he asked, she wouldn't tell. It seemed she liked keeping him in the dark on things for her own twisted amusement.

_I'll send you the details tomorrow morning_, she wrote back minutes later, complete with a smiling face icon. He could practically feel the glee on the other end with that response. A twinge of a smile traced along his lip as he envisioned her grinning face. Even at midnight, she responded.

The minute whisper of his smile remained as he drifted back to his work, dabbed a pinprick of white in the teal and dark blue before mixing to create the right shade. Yes, he would have to practice to get the hue to his precise satisfaction.

* * *

An increase in temperature brought on better weather, if only temporarily. Although it was still on the chilly side, it was warm enough to be outside at nearly noon as Vegeta glared beneath indirect sunlight while leaning up against a tree trunk in the middle of an extremely populated park. Apparently, everyone else in the city had the same idea to be outdoors on a day of respite from the upcoming winter with families having picnic lunches and others playing on the grass or jogging by.

"I don't like surprises. Why are we here?" He complained loudly, crossing his arms, pulling his green coat tighter across his chest.

Bulma was busy rifling through her large backpack on the concrete in a secluded part off the main path currently devoid of other people. A red bench was placed as a resting stop at the edge of the circle of grey that was situated under a thick treeline, snippets of sunlight coming through.

"To do art therapy." She said plainly but cheerful as she pulled out a few boxes of supplies, placing them near her feet. She rolled up the sleeves on her own purple coat to prevent her clothes from getting dirty.

"I do not need art therapy." He groused before slowly wandered over, intrigued at what she could have brought then stopped dead in his tracks. "No. I don't work with those."

Bulma shook her head at him incredulously. "Seriously. It's just chalk. I got the professional kind, too. Don't be such a baby. Sit."

"I'm not a street performer. I use tools. Brushes, pencils. I don't-"

"You are being so difficult right now." She chided. "Stop being a prima donna and pick up a chalk. I even got your favorite color." She said in a singsong tone as she held several sticks of black, waving them enticingly.

Every fiber in his being screamed that he didn't have time for this childish activity, but her impish grin won over his resolve and he took a seat next to her, grumbling the whole time in disgust. He didn't work with chalk. It had lost all appeal now that he was no longer five.

He groaned at her snickering, picked up the black stick and drew a large box as his temporary canvas aggressively. "It's not my favorite color." He said defiantly under his breath.

"Oh, and what is?" She asked as she drew orange circles of several sizes.

His hand stilted as his eyes widened with realizing he set himself up. A simple question with what should have been a simple answer. He knew, though, that she would interpret a more personal meaning from it. He could be honest and face her teasing. Or he could lie.

Evidently his posture and expression tipped her off. "Wow, you look like I just asked you what kind of porn you like to watch." She grinned.

He looked over, mortified. Her laughing made his ears burn in humiliation. She sidled up next to him, wiping her eyes where tears had formed and bumped her shoulder into his for support. "I'm totally fucking with you."

"Do you speak to everyone this way?" His inquiry defensive through his embarrassment, playfully pushing her off him as her giggles became more controlled.

"No. Just you." She stuck her tongue out at him. "It amuses me to see you so flustered."

He tsked with an eye roll. "Lucky me. Nice way to start off a relationship." He grumbled under his breath and immediately knew that was the wrong identifier.

"Oh? So we're in a relationship, now?" Her voice was impishly curious as she snaked her arm with his taut bicep, tense to her touch, and resting her head on his arm.

"A platonic relationship." he corrected, averting his gaze.

"Uh-huh. And you don't like me messing with you." She pointed out with a coy smile, look up at his face under half-lidded eyes.

Vegeta brought his gaze and staccatoed between her two deep cerulean wells. The look was back. Her grip on his arm tightened.

He frowned a little as she blinked with a new, sober expression and pushed off him. She picked up a different colored chalk and returned to her drawing on the concrete as she collected herself. "So, you have two options: you can either tell me what kind of porn you like to watch, which probably the answer I'm most curious to know, or what your favorite color is. Apparently, these fall on the same level of things you're embarrassed to share."

Bulma placed her chin into the heel of her hand in waiting.

He had hoped she would have just let it go. He should have known better by now. "Fine." He hissed, forced to relent to the latter of requests. "Blue." He murmured in honest admission. "My favorite color is blue."

Her face lit up in understanding and she tilted her head in a dreamy fashion. "Aw."

"Don't start. I liked the color well before you." He retorted.

"Sure you did." She placated with a flirty side-eye and went back to her drawing.

Peering over at her work, he watched her hand glide over and fill in her orange circles with yellow stars. She wasn't talented in any sense but she did things her way. He could respect that.

Vegeta's mouth turned up a little. The simplicity of their friendship felt so effortless.

The silence persisted for a few more minutes of calm, freeform drawing, a practice he didn't even do for himself very much anymore. He had become so preoccupied with forcing himself lately, to replicate the success of his previous series, just drawing for fun, with no deadline and no judgment was serene. He'd never tell her she was possibly right for suggesting the childish activity. Bulma didn't need any more ammunition for her "I told you so" arsenal.

Lost in the sound of light scratching on the pavement, he heard her clear her throat apprehensively. She kept her eyes focused on her moving hand as she addressed him, validation veiled in her voice. "Do you like me messing with you sometimes?"

"Sometimes?" He questioned incredulously with a soft smile.

She chuckled mildly then corrected herself. "Okay, most of the time. Are you okay with it?"

"It's tolerable."

Her drawing hand eventually stilled, her gaze remained grounded. "Do you like me?"

He took a shallow breath to consider his answer carefully, feeling out the implication behind her words. He was surprisingly content with the stage of friendship. Yet, evidently, there appeared to be more she wanted from him. He couldn't deny that maybe he wanted more as well.

"Yes." He responded low, a cautiousness to his tone, waiting to see if the risk was taking would blow up in his face.

He watched her nod with a smile as she picked up a yellow chalk to draw stars without another comment before returning to his own, a blush beginning across his nose. He then became acutely perceptive to her presence inching closer and looked over at her face which was only a short distance away.

"To be honest, I like you, too." She whispered.

Unsure of what to do with this new admission of attraction, he found himself leaning in as she did.

He could feel his cheeks getting warmer as her face neared. He closed his eyes reflexively.

His lips nearly touched hers.

"Hey, Bulma! I thought it was you!" A call cut through their moment and Vegeta pulled back out of a daze to see her face marred in surprise as well.

_Of all the ill-timed things,_ he seethed internally as he glanced up to see that absolute worst person to show up uninvited.

"Goku!" Bulma exclaimed and jumped up off the concrete to embrace the newcomer.

"Hi! It's great seeing you. I was just out for a jog." He grinned goofily then turned his attention downward.

"Vegeta! Wow, didn't think I'd see you here. I didn't know you guys were friends." He beamed.

Vegeta couldn't muster a response fitting for his rival artist and instead narrowed his eyes at the intruder. Despite his death glare honed at the younger man, Goku remained completely oblivious.

"Did you get my text the other day?" He asked, directing his attention back to Bulma.

"Yeah, I did. I was a little busy to respond, though." She flitted her gaze from Vegeta to Goku apologetically.

"It's fine. I was just wondering if you wanted to go to a showing. I have a new piece I'm gonna be presenting. Chi Chi says it's the best yet. I dunno. I don't care about showing them off. I just like making them." He grinned humbly as he scratched the back of his head.

Rage prickled under Vegeta's skin at the mere mention that the moron had made another sculpture that would probably be commended when he struggled so much at the current moment to paint anything worth presenting. His finger balled into a fist at his side with bitterness.

"I'd love to come," Bulma said back with elation. Vegeta's stomach dropped.

Goku nodded in agreement and they began to go over some of the details. Vegeta could hardly stand listening further as he rebuked himself for not being disciplined or expeditious enough in his craft. It didn't help either that he found himself bristling at Bulma's attention given to the oaf in front of her.

The taller artist clapped his hands together happily. "It's settled then. Hey! What are you guys doing? Can I join?" Goku quired as he sat himself down and picked up a piece of chalk without waiting for confirmation.

Bulma giggled. "Yeah, you can join us. I'd be fun, right, Vegeta?"

He let Goku invade his space for all of 30 seconds before the twinge in his jaw ached from clenching his teeth too hard. It was too much to take. He rose from the ground to the surprise of the other two and started backing up to the main path, his eyes dark.

"I'm gonna go." He stated and turned to walk off.

"Wait!" He heard Bulma's frantic voice behind him and he stopped his stride when her hand clutched at his arm. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." He lied and averted his gaze.

"Don't give me that." She said hushed but insistent. "Clearly something's wrong."

"I just… I realize I don't have time for this."

"Okay?" Her eyebrows drew together. "Then call me later. You will call me." She insisted.

Despite the fury that bubbled under the surface, Vegeta couldn't help looking her in the eye, seeing concern and warmth he had gotten used to, and nodding as shortly as possible while turning his back to her, heading out of the park.

Vegeta bit his tongue at the audacity of the younger artist interrupting an unexpected but anticipated moment with her then proceeded to parade his success so casually, as if it were effortless. He wouldn't let the tactless fool surpass him again. He was working on one piece at the moment. It was high time to devote some real creative energy to another piece fueled by his competitive nature to be the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Sorry for the late post. Lots of real-life crap that made this chapter harder to write. Hopefully, things are smoothing out and I can update sooner. Thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you everyone for reading, subscribing and commenting. You are my drive to finish this story and I just love all the support over this fic. It means so much to be a part of this awesome community. Thank you again and enjoy!

The work he had come up with lately was damn near inspired by divine intervention. Both pieces were distinctly different in form, one held a refined flow borne out of trust and respect for a dear confidant in a color palette of greens, blues and whites while the other devolved into something akin to rageful madness, driven by rivalry awash in black, red, orange and greys, with a dark, harsh background and the beginnings of a tumultuous fiery cosmos.

Neither piece had any concrete detailings, especially his more tranquil work, but he was proud of the intense drive that resurfaced and gave him a clear, creative vision that had been out of reach for quite some time.

He made sure to take photos of his progress, enjoying the juxtaposition of the two pieces and anticipating the development to finished product. It was the same feeling from his early days when he experienced complete control over painting that produced something of meaning and purpose. He couldn't hold back the genuine prideful smile for only himself and his studio to know.

The only times he stopped working was to read and respond to Bulma's texts detailing her day, a routine he quite enjoyed, like a secret for the two of them to share without speaking out loud.

A chime chirped behind him on the table as he was elbow deep in red space dust colliding violently with yellow celestial clouds. He put a final stroke of maroon to the canvas before placing the brush on the palette, drying his hands on a rag the best he could and opened the messages.

_Hey, just wondering if you would go to the art show with me this Friday?_

It was two days away and in his addled mind, he had completely forgotten about the event. A resurgence of resentment for its 'honored' guest reared up and manifested in the pulsing in his jaw. The next text changed his expression almost immediately.

_As my date._

Date? At the moment, he could admit to being attracted to her but a date definitely pushed things. Rather than say 'no' outright, as a part of him felt he should answer, he decided to gather more information.

_What would I have to do?_

_Show up and look pretty?_

He smirked at her cheekiness. _Isn't that your job?_

_We'll both look pretty. How's that._

_Sounds fair._

He shook his head at her subsequent winking smiley face text. His mind muddled with what an evening as her 'date' could entail. Another chirp sounded on the device.

_You'll want to go. Especially with what I'll be wearing to it. Pick me up at 7._

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Sighing undecidedly, it took a large part of willpower to consider attending an art showing, especially when it was not in tribute to him. He was probably going to hate it, loathe it, inwardly fume the whole time.

With her attending, it may not be all bad.

_I guarantee you'll be the only thing I'll want to see._

* * *

The street was calm as light flooded the vicinity by towering lamps hanging over the sidewalk and buzzing with moths in the early evening. Ten past 7, Vegeta checked his phone, the last text saying she'd be down in a 'few minutes', sent twenty minutes ago. He shuddered once in the chilly air, thankful to be wearing a navy blue suit jacket despite it not being made for warmth but for cosmetic appeal. He leaned up against the cold metal of the truck's passenger door in waiting, finding the dress slacks and tie cinched to his neck resting on his black dress shirt increasingly claustrophobic the more he thought about it. Never a big fan of formal occasions, he closed his eyes and tried to remain at ease. Better than speculating on all the things that could happen as the evening went on.

He opened his eyes and looked up, thoroughly vexed, as he heard the door the main entrance of the complex slam. _About time._

His expression dropped as his jaw went slack seeing the goddess-like creature glittering as she passed under each lamppost and clicking melodiously on the walkway towards him.

Dolled up in an off the shoulder dark blue gown, sequined at her neckline, she stunningly swayed as the fabric hugged every curve with her approach, her blue hair in waves cascading like a waterfall around her pale shoulders. Grinning smugly, she reached up and gently tapped his chin to close his mouth he hadn't realized had been gaping open awkwardly.

"You clean up nicely," Bulma said, honeyed and smooth. "Looks like we're matching. And we didn't even plan it that way."

_Get it together,_ he chided himself as he blinked in embarrassment for looking foolish in front of her and attempted to formulate a sentence.

Bulma grinned wider with understanding. "I know, I'm beautiful. It took me four hours."

He scoffed with a suppressed smile. "You are a conceited thing."

"True. But you still agree with me." She teased back.

He opened the door and held his hand out as she got into the passenger side. Her perfume wafted around the inside of the truck as they drove off. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the road as his mind savored the solid press of her manicured fingertips on his sleeve.

* * *

"What's with the face?" She asked, taking his hand and holding a silver clutch in the other as they walked through the busy parking lot.

The large two-story, whitewashed gallery was primely located in the trendy district of the city between a boutique selling cupcakes for dogs and a teashop promoting popular drinks for its health-conscious hipster clientele. Above its entryway glowed a flamboyantly large sign reading Angel's Gallery in a violet cursive script as chic guests filed through its doors.

"This is how I always look." He replied dismissively, quashing the building resentment in his chest by glaring at the asinine opulence of the district.

"Uh-huh. Are you upset because it's Goku?" She inquired harmlessly.

"I'm not upset. I just don't get how he's so damn popular. This is the best gallery in the city. His sculptures aren't even that good." He muttered under his breath, squeezing her hand absentmindedly as they walked towards the obscenely bright entrance bathed in hundreds of colored LED string lights over its massive glass and gold doorway where muted laughter and music permeated beyond it.

"Maybe not to you. Don't you dare say that to him or I'll never forgive you." She warned, playfully hitting his chest while batting her eyes.

"You're friends." He acknowledged more sullenly than he'd like to admit.

"Yes. We've been friends since we were kids. And no, we never dated." She stated bluntly.

"I wasn't thinking that." _Until you put it in my head,_ he bristled.

"Just wanted to clarify just in case there was any doubt."

He groaned loudly with an expression of disquiet as the dark clouds in his mind formed in the shadowy shape of his halfwitted adversary.

He gave her a sideways glance, observing a momentary change from reassurance to mischievousness on her visage. "I have an idea. Come here." She instructed with spontaneity while pulling him down a side alleyway just off the end of the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" He looked around as other well dressed guests continued to the front doors without a single glance their way.

The red brick passageway, lit in pockets for security purposes, was devoid of people and seemingly private enough for Bulma to take initiative and contour her lithe frame against him as her pouty red lips found his. Temporarily stunned, he backed up to the wall until finally surrendering to her kiss with mutual intensity. He hadn't realized how starved he was for her touch until her mouth conformed perfectly to his. Reluctantly pulling away, he harshly breathed in and out from momentarily forgetting how to do so.

"What are you doing?" He inquired into the silence between them.

"Continuing where we left off. Without interruption this time." She replied, a delicate redness blooming in her cheeks.

Magnetically drawn to her, all circuits fired as he crashed his lips to hers, impassioned and unrestrained. Gripping her waist sheathed in silken fabric, he shifted their positions suddenly, dominating their contact, pressing her carefully against the unforgiving bricks as she mewed into his kiss, urging him on for more.

Forcing himself to pull back to seek air and a clear head, he brought his hand up to grip the nape of her neck while resting his forehead on hers.

"We should stop." He advised, more to himself, in a harsh whisper.

"Then stop kissing me," her advice futile as his mouth was on hers again as if that was its only function.

She chuckled sweetly as the kisses ebbed with her pulling away. He frowned at both the loss of desired contact and his uncontrolled behavior. Rubbing her thumb along his jawline, she gave him a swift peck with a smirk. "Feeling less angry?"

"I guess." He muttered. _Just turned on,_ he thought as he tried to adjust himself without her noticing.

"How about a deal: we can continue this, and possibly more, later at your place." She suggested impishly.

Vegeta smirked back at the tempting proposition. "You promise?"

"If you're a good boy. Now, c'mon. There's a party and I want to go say hello." Bulma flipped open her compact produced from the small clutch and applied a smear of gloss to her reddened lips. "I knew it was a good idea to wear colorless lip gloss." She said with a wink.

Vegeta's mouth turned up as she made cute expressions in her mirror before closing the compact with a snap. Threading her arm in his, he couldn't quell the uncommon and enduring smile on his face, dusted off from lack of use and worn more and more often in her presence. Entering the din of art snobs and local talents, he didn't think that anything could dampen his uncharacteristically good mood, his chest puffed out pridefully with such an exquisite creature at his side.


	10. Chapter 10

The eclectic gallery took up two floors with local artwork on display. The second floor held the majority of the elaborate cache- paintings and modern art evenly spaced along the glossy white walls hung on delicate wire, multicolored blown-glass pieces dangled elegantly from the ceiling, and an assortment of sculptures on black marble plinths filling the upstairs space.

The first was dedicated for attendees to socialize, eat and drink, filling the room with their chatter. Angel's Gallery was known throughout the city to set defining trends and for its indiscriminate tastes in its pieces and people, so as long as both things remained popular and monetarily successful within the world they created.

There were a lot of eyes on him moments after he and Bulma entered. Being in the art scene in the city, there existed the types of people that tended to know each other and gravitated in the same circles, attending the same shows, parroting the same opinions, buying from popular artists and giving themselves pats on the back for supporting the local community. Even though Vegeta was considered as being on the outside of the usual congregation of members, there was no doubt that he was as entrenched in the scene as the most sought after artists were. It became more evident, as heads turned and whispers began around him, that attending an event in what appeared to be in support of another just made the target on his back a little more noticeable.

His hand tightened on Bulma's as he flitted his eyes to the other partygoers trying to read their expressions and finding more faces looking on in curious admiration than unwelcome disapproval.

The gazes didn't slip past Bulma's notice either. "So it was a good thing you came after all." She whispered slyly. He mirrored her smirk as he thrust his chin up.

"Validation is nice."

"Well, if all you needed was validation, I think you're a brilliant painter." She remarked, squeezing his hand back. The blatant public setting was the only holding him back from kissing her again.

"C'mon. Let's get a drink." She offered as she clung to his arm and tugged him in the direction of the gallery bar.

Nursing his gin and tonic, Vegeta hung back and made no attempt at offering himself up for conversation. He watched Bulma do the opposite- engage with everyone in the vicinity, laughing in her beguiling way, and taking dainty sips from whatever pink drink she ordered. He still couldn't understand how someone like her could possibly have taken a liking to him but he was going to try to not question it any longer.

He perked up in awareness when she appeared to have seen someone she knew in the crowd, letting out a short shriek in excitement and wandering off. He swallowed the remainder of the glass and asked for another, waiting for her to return when he heard his name called out in an obnoxiously loud octave.

"Here it comes." He said to himself with a grimace, swirling the clinking ice against the glass.

"Hey, Vegeta. So you did make it. I almost thought you weren't gonna come." Goku beamed elatedly, clapping Vegeta on the shoulder. Vegeta noted his ensemble- dark grey slacks, lighter grey sport coat, and bright orange dress shirt.

_Can't even dress correctly for this type of event. Idiot._ "Kakarot." He acknowledged dryly, taking another sip of his drink.

Goku's eyes widened at the moniker. "Nobody calls me that anymore." He said in a furtively low tone.

Vegeta drew his eyebrows together. "That's your name." He stated plainly.

"Yea, my name, name. But I changed it, like a while ago. My artist name is Goku Son. Easier to pronounce." He corrected happily.

"Don't give a shit. I'll call you what I want." _Give me a few more drinks and you'll be surprised at how many I can come up with._

Ignorant to the frost in his words, Goku returned his features to his normal jovial expression. "You're too much, Vegeta." He laughed as Vegeta rolled his eyes. "Did you see my sculpture?" He bounced on his heels with the enthusiasm of a rambunctious puppy.

His exuberance was grating. "No."

"Well, you should. It's a girl this time." He encouraged.

"Fascinating." He took another sip with a sharp inhale from the burn down his throat.

Narrowing his eyes and considering how many drinks he'd have to consume to find the dolt tolerable, he spied a flash of blue coming back, a wily smile etched on her face.

"Wow. Do I have gossip for you." She exuberantly told him then strode over to the taller man with glee, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly, affectionate hug. "Goku! Congratulations on another piece. I can't wait to see it." She said in earnest. Vegeta narrowed his eyes further as the embrace was returned amiably.

"Hiya, Bulma! I was telling Vegeta about it. It's upstairs." He looked over her shoulder as he released her from his arms. "I'm being summoned by the wife but we should catch up later. I'd love to hear how you're doing."

Backing up through the throng of bodies, Goku whipped his head back at them with a grin. "And congrats on you guys. You make a cute couple." He added before disappearing into the crowd.

Blanching slightly at the comment, Vegeta turned his attention to Bulma who was smiling awkwardly then hummed with pleased acceptance. Pursing his lips, Vegeta thought it best not to dwell on what kind of display they were putting on by forcing himself to ignore the comment.

"Let's go upstairs. I want to see the statue." She said finally, finishing the rest of her drink and placing it on the bartop. Vegeta put his glass down as well right as she threaded her hand with his and drug him to the steps to the second floor.

"So I heard straight from her, apparently Krillin and 18 are dating." She whispered excitedly as they ascended to the top floor.

"Gross." Vegeta immediately replied with a sneer, not caring for the tactlessness. It hadn't even crossed his mind that both of them could be there, yet, considering Krillin represented the oaf as well, it now made sense.

Stopping her stride abruptly, she scoffed with an astonished white-toothed grin. "Of course you'd say that."

"Who wouldn't say that. It's weird. Besides, she's too tall for him." He remarked dismissively.

"I think it's sweet." Bulma gushed, placing a hand across her heart in support. "And maybe 18 just has a thing for short guys." She added with a coyly raised eyebrow as she stood a full head taller on the two stairs up from where he was.

He smirked at her jest while stepping up to her level and putting his face in hers. "What are you getting at?" he inquired teasingly.

"Nothing." She replied innocently, averting her eyes to the ceiling.

As she began her ascension once more, he considered the choices of his agent. _Didn't take my advice, poor bastard,_ he thought with a rueful shake of his head, washing his hands of the whole affair, _she's gonna destroy him. Good luck with that._

He drew his awareness back to the present as his gaze wandered back to the woman leading him to the top floor, her charming smile beckoning, slowly solidifying that perhaps better things lay just in front of him while he resolved to, at least, let that part of his past go.

* * *

Staring blankly at the bronze 'sculpture' resting on a marble pedestal at 2 feet high, the female warrior's partially muscled arms were held aloft at sharp angles, her tiny fists craned back and poised for impact with an unseen foe. Her attire of baggy pants and tube top, midriff exposed, appeared less menacing than he had initially envisioned and was made more obvious to Vegeta as she sported the same doopy grin mirrored in Kakarot's face. Scoffing loudly then faking a cough when he caught Bulma's disapproving glare, he looked down to spy the nameplate in gold beneath the piece.

"Caulifa." He said scornfully to himself and glanced over to Bulma whose face was awash in silent accolade. Where the fuck does he come up with these names? He thought resentfully as a memory of another work titled 'Cabba' flitted across his mind.

An astonished laugh cut through the din of voices as a tall man, made even taller by his curling wave of white hair, strode over with an arm folded casually at the small of his back, a decorative cane tapping on the tile. Both Bulma and Vegeta rotated to the approaching sound. His plum robe swished showing off his otherworldly fashion sense right down to his black high-heeled shoes with white spats.

Vegeta knew the man well as the partial owner of the gallery with his unusual, aloof personality and effeminate nature. Yet, Vegeta couldn't deny the man had an eye for talent and often was quintessential in discovering the next rising star primed for fame.

"Vegeta, what a pleasant surprise seeing you here. Such a rarity having you at gatherings like this unless they're in your honor." His violet eyes dancing with intrigue.

Vegeta stood a little straighter in the presence of the taller man and gently pulled Bulma closer to his side. "I was invited by one of your guests. Nice to see you again, Whis."

"And you came on your own volition. How unexpected." He remarked with a breezy tone.

Vegeta could never get a real reading on the eccentric art dealer the few times they had worked together. He had settled a while back that he probably never would.

"I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"Yes. Goku, he is talented, isn't he?" He replied serenely.

"Depends on who's judging." Vegeta narrowed his eyes with dissent.

"And who is this beauty on your arm?" Whis purred.

She held out her hand to shake his. "Bulma. We've met before. I work with 18."

"Oh, yes. The tall blond one. She has that show… 18 Reasons something or other." Whis waved a thin wrist flippantly.

Vegeta's mouth minutely turned up with snide pleasure at the gallery owner's unfamiliarity with 18's work.

"I didn't know you were dating anyone?" The taller man's attention focused on Vegeta, his eyes sparkled at potential juicy gossip.

The artist would have rather kept his personal life as private as possible by making no comment on the subject.

Bulma, however, took it upon herself to speak for the both of them.

"We're just friends. This is actually our first unofficial date." She beamed happily. Vegeta's mouth drew to an uncomfortable hard line.

"Is that so," Whis commented curiously. Vegeta averted his eyes to the floor as he felt the man's captivated gaze bearing down. He couldn't stop the heat rising to his face, wanting to protect the woman at his side from further inquisition into their personal lives. "New relationships are always so sweet. Vegeta, I wonder if your endearing companion wouldn't mind releasing you for a few moments. I'd love to discuss something with you in private."

Taken by surprise, he nodded briefly before glancing over to gauge her approval.

"Of course. Take your time." Bulma squeezed his hand once then released with a smile as she went for the staircase, leaving the two men to talk alone. Unsure of what kind of conversation he could have with the art dealer, Vegeta concluded that if it had anything to do with possible future arrangements within the successful gallery, it was a conversation worth having.


	11. Chapter 11

"What do you think of our little get-together?" The taller man quired, tilting his head inquisitively.

They stepped to the side as a group of adoring fans positioned themselves in front of the statue. Vegeta followed in the wake of Whis' long stride until they reached a more secluded corner. Vegeta chewed the inside of his cheek at seeing one of his pieces from his early 'Comet' series hung in the lonely region just over his shoulder. Despite being illuminated as it should, the piece mocked him as acrimony roiled up with the awareness that it was probably the only work of his in the entire gallery.

Making his best effort to ignore the insult behind him, he turned his back to the painting. "Overly elaborate. Especially for who it's for." He answered flippantly, noting Whis' oblivious disposition for their confluence area.

"Still fighting like cats and dogs, I see. Or rather, like a cat fighting with a dog that's just adorably clueless enough to not understand."

Vegeta tsked while crossing his arms in irritation. He didn't see the point of letting Whis know exactly how he felt about the clueless dog in question.

Whis' delicate pale face turned smoothly to observe the collection of people, one of whom was a reporter they both recognized wielding a professional camera and taking snapshots of the female warrior. The attention garnered was getting on Vegeta's last nerve.

"Do you know why I keep hosting these parties for him? Why his work is so desired?" The gallery owner asked in a calm, knowing tenor before turning his attention back. "His stage presence." He concluded definitively. Vegeta twinged moderately, knowing full well where this conversation was headed having heard this lecture from so many in the past.

Whis placed his two thin hands atop his cane in rest, the purple nail varnish flickering in the fluorescent lighting. "Goku is likable. He is sweet and pleasant and goes out of his way to entertain his fans. He is a born performer and keeps coming back with a boyish charm that I'm sure he doesn't even realize how powerful it is. He works well with me and I can sell his pieces without hardly even trying. He engages with his admirers in a way that makes our partnership that much easier."

The artist turned his gaze to the side to avoid the direct scrutiny of the violet-eyed man as he drew his fingers stealthily into his palms. _You just have to play the part, buddy. _Krillin would tell him, _pretend to be nice for a while, _he'd coax. The bald man would say anything to get him to be more docile, right up until he'd give his agent a glare that would melt granite. That always shut him up. Getting the same treatment from Whis was worse.

"You, on the other hand, are difficult to work with." Vegeta steeled himself from flinching. "You may be exceptionally talented in your medium but you cannot sell yourself which hinders your work. You are brash, arrogant and unapproachable. I have hosted you before in the past for the 'Black Hole' collection but that was solely because I owed a favor to Krillin." Vegeta let out a slow exhale through his nose as the words burned acidly under a saccharine tone.

That was the night, almost a year ago, he had both made ninety grand in four hours and was sure he had burned several bridges with some of his fans and the press over a petty argument about brush preferences that lead to a broken nose and a trip to the hospital, neither for Vegeta himself. The incident subsequently thrust him into global notice as a bad-tempered but gifted artist. After that, Krillin wallowed for weeks over the probable loss of business from the acclaimed art dealer, among many others.

"I remember. I also recall it sold. All of it." He informed in defense while gnashing his teeth. "I am known further than in this city. I should not have to debase myself to appease others."

"I'm not requesting you do so. Just making a point. Your collection sold with assistance from this gallery. And I'd be willing to ignore your brazen disregard of personal promotion if you had something worthy to present. I enjoy your work. Truly. We both know which one of the two of you is more trained, honed to the craft." He said with genuine honesty.

"I have a piece currently in progress that's worth presenting." He put forth confidently.

Whis raised a lilac eyebrow curiously. "Do you? With your high standards, it wouldn't surprise me if you considered it a masterpiece. I wouldn't be opposed to previewing it if you are agreeable."

Considering the state of the piece, an unpolished fragmentation of a grander design, Vegeta surmised it was unwise to dismiss such a fleeting moment to make an impression on the powerful art dealer.

He drew out his phone from his pocket and flipped to the first photos of his more competitive and anger-driven work, sighing inaudibly in relief when he had earlier thought to hide the other, more personal, painting from prying eyes. Handing the device over, he held his breath as he watched Whis flip through the progress with an unreadable expression.

Passing the phone back once he reached the last photograph, the taller man nodded with a satisfied smile. "This has potential. I'm sure it's even better in person." He remarked.

"It is," Vegeta responded pridefully, his chest swelling at the approval.

"I am under the assumption that you wish to stay in this industry."

"Absolutely." He said with conviction.

"Then to be straightforward, I would like to make a deal with you. A slot opened up in my scheduling and I find that I am without an artist to showcase. And when I couldn't think of someone to fill the spot, I spy you serendipitously here at an event that you wouldn't have otherwise shown up for, if not for being the plus one to one of my guests. Call it fate but I have an offer that I can assure you only comes around once in a blue moon. You bring me eight paintings in a series by the end of January, and if I like them, I will personally throw you an event like this. Consider this your chance at a comeback."

Knitting his dark eyebrows together, Vegeta tried to remember the current month, then drew back in revelation. "Three months? You want eight paintings in three months." He clarified in disbelief.

"I know you are capable. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't think that. If you want to stay in this business, you need to prove your dedication." He replied unperturbed.

Vegeta's mind clouded in deliberation on whether it was possible under such a short timeframe. Each piece would take sketching, color scheme, coordination. The time it would take-

His train of thought was cut short by a burst of high pitched laughter and a wave of a manicured hand. "Don't look so worried, Vegeta. If this is too much, you don't have to-"

"I'll do it." He said abruptly with determination, not wanting to risk letting the golden opportunity slip through his fingers. "I'll give you eight. In three months."

The taller man's violet eyes danced with excitement. "Wonderful. Looking forward to it. Update me in a couple of months on your progress so I can begin making arrangements and draw up a contract. Perhaps even a business partnership may come out of this in the future."

Vegeta only nodded and shook the man's hand in a daze as while a torrent of anxious thought frantically raced around inside.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to mingle. Be sure to have Krillin call me this week. Have a nice evening, Vegeta." Whis chuckled good-humored as he turned on his heel, cane clicking on the tile with soft pings.

He could only blink as he counted time in his head. _3 months... That's 90 days. How long does it take to…_ A deep breath, Vegeta clenched and unclenched his hands as a self-assured smirk formed. _I knew it was good. No, it's fucking great. Fuck Kakarot. I am the best. I can fucking do this._

His legs started to carry him to the stairs and he touched the handrail, the smirk still plastered smugly. _I just have to adjust my time a little. I need to tell Bulma. She'll be-_

His grip tightened on the cold metal as a jolt of reality shot through him. He had three months to do the near impossible. 90 days to paint perfection quickly without distraction. She had already proven to be a very consistent, and accepted, distraction at his home several times a week and on his phone daily. She had become an ever-present vision in his mind.

He gradually closed his eyes as a tightness clawed in his chest.

He hadn't even considered it would come to this.

He swallowed thickly and cruelly dismissed any thoughts of compromise, crushed under the weight of personal obligation.

Heavily making his way back to the first floor, he found an empty seat at the bar and waited, darkness looming. It had to be done. He knew he didn't have time for both.

* * *

She finally showed up, slightly red-faced and laughing, unaware of his dismay externally displayed in his cold grasp, distant gaze, and wordlessness. They got into his truck and drove through the city as she chatted happily about the happenings of the evening. He kept his eyes on the road in stoic silence feeling every twist of the knife he inflicted on himself as they got closer to their destination.

Reaching her apartment complex, she glanced over in mild confusion. "I thought we were going back to your place? Not that I'm complaining. I mean, if you're okay with being here, then I am." She implied with a vixenish grin as she unbuckled and touched his fingers stuck to the gearshift.

Maintaining his mute disposition, he took his hand from hers and reached up to her face, grazing her cheek with his fingertips before pulling her lips to his softly at first but leading to urgent kisses, wishing for time to stop and hoping she didn't feel the finality in them.

Cringing internally over how foolishly attached he had become, he eventually pulled back and observed her flushed and yearning features.

"We can continue this upstairs." She offered breathlessly with a chuckle.

Moving as far away as possible in the small unlit cab, he averted his eyes as the walls rebuilt around him.

Bulma adjusted in her seat in alarm, now hyper-aware of his outward appearance. "What's going on? You've been really nice the whole night. I thought-"

"I think I should go back to my house." He said hollowly, finding his voice.

"That was the plan."

"No. I mean I go to mine and… you go to yours." He responded, colder than he had intended. He felt her shift again as her breathing was more audible.

He was prepared for her to yell, scream, anything besides what came next. Silence. Hurt. And disappointment.

"I don't understand. Are you breaking up with me?" She managed after a few unbearable moments in the dark.

"We were never officially together." He replied, numb.

"But there was something between us, right?" He could hear a choked stammer in her words.

He continued to stare blankly into the distance. The only thing he could focus on was trying to feel nothing.

She took several sharp inhales quickly through her nose. "Look at me. Look at me, you fucking coward." She demanded, her anger evident.

"What did you just call me?" He questioned with an insulted hiss, taken aback to see the initial shock had worn off and been replaced by fury across her features. Anger was a state he could work with.

"I called you what you are. A coward. You can't even look at me because you know that this is wrong. Tell me why. I deserve that at least." She spat through gritted teeth.

He responded the only way he knew how- with a cruel, thoughtless attack. "I was fine before you." He bit back. "I didn't need anyone and I certainly didn't seek anyone out. You have pushed me to participate in your childish activities that have served no purpose. Everything that you've done has been a hindrance to my work. I can see now that you want more from whatever this is and I can't give it. There are things I need to do and I will do them… without you. This has gone too fast. I'm not the relationship type. I told you that when we met." His harsh words shifted her composure and he immediately pulled back. "I just need some space." He added callously to dismiss the lingering guilt.

Her chin wobbled for a brief moment until she took a thick breath and hardened her features. "Fine. You can have it. I just thought I meant something more to you." She said decisive, through restrained, brimming tears.

He felt a gust of chilly air pour into the cab as she got out, gentle notes of her lingering perfume tease under his nose to then dissipate as quickly as it came.

As she began to close the door, she looked off, sucking in air as she spoke. "I know how hard it is for you to admit, but everyone needs a friend. I only wanted to be one for you." Her gaze turned to ice as she locked an aqueous leer with his dark one. "You are such a shitty friend." She shook her head with disdain as the portal slammed shut and she turned her back to him.

His eyes began to water as he watched her go.

_It's from lack of blinking. I'm sure of it. _He surmised, closing them but seeing her diminishing figure disappear in his mind. He swallowed thickly as he wicked away the wetness with a rough, quick swipe. With a short sniff, he headed home. Alone.

_This is for the best._

* * *

The front door creaked open, breaking the silence as he looked around vacantly at the empty front room. The couch did little for comfort after he removed his shoes, jacket and loosened his constricting tie and dropped down carelessly.

Resolved to sleep where he lay, the seat cushions pushed back on his flank until he felt the resistance of something amiss with it. He dug around under the cushion with annoyance and was startled when his deft fingers found the disturbance. He pinched his eyes in torment when he pulled out the soft, dark grey sweater, haphazardly strewn and lost within the confines of the sofa, left behind from forgetfulness.

"Damn disorganized woman." He said strained, a pang forming in his chest as he held the article of clothing tightly in his fists. "Why would you leave this here?"

Gnashing his teeth, hating himself over the tenderness he felt and reliving her devastated expression not even an hour ago, his grasp on the fabric shook as he began to pull it taut, willing himself to tear it apart as punishment. He steadily relented as he couldn't find the strength to destroy the only piece of her he had left and instead brought it to his face, harsh breathing coming in spurts until his inhales slowed. It agonizingly smelled of her, lavender and vanilla scents bringing back aching memories of comforting solace during their short months together.

_I have to focus. I don't have time for her. _He reminded himself. He bit his tongue to divert the pain away from the stinging of salt in his eyes.

_I can't miss her._

_It's for the best._

_Right?_


	12. Chapter 12

A pale hand squeezed his knee and he watched as the delicate, familiar digits caressed him in small circles. He glanced up to an even more familiar smile, her eyes obscured behind blue tresses, staring back and he watched her mouth open and close in conversation but no sound was audible to him. In fact, there was no sound at all that he could register as his mind accepted the situation.

He discovered a brush in hand, paint dripping from the end, and brought it up to smear across the swirling canvas in black and white stars scattering across a stormy sky. He needed to concentrate, he reprimanded to his unfocused brush searching for his easel as his wandering eyes were pulled back down to stare at the comforting hand still placed on his leg.

"Do you hear that?" She called, her voice finally audible and echoing in the distance despite her close proximity.

"Hear what?" he heard himself ask, looking up to see her face clearly, frozen in disappointment and hurt. A soft chime, becoming progressively louder, broke him of his guilty thoughts he couldn't say aloud.

* * *

Vegeta's dark eyes flew open with a gasp as the groggy images of deep sleep remained for a minute, then were gone. He reached over to silence the ringing of his bedside alarm while rubbing his tired face in an effort to wake up further, the early dawn of morning gently creeping in through the blinds.

From what he could recall in those brief moments between being asleep and awake, he had the distinct feeling of annoying repetition. His dreams had become more and more lucid after deciding to take sleep aid medication due to insomnia over the past 4 weeks. Anything was better than the 2-3 hours a day of broken rest before taking the pills that had been causing irritability, disorganization and splitting migraines on top of the stress from pressure to complete his work. The side effects, however, were frequent and often vivid dreams accompanied by the irksome alarm clock blaring in his ear. At least the medicated sleep had regulated his daily schedule of a morning run to clear his head, regimented painting, eating something, usually in the form of a bland protein shake, another couple hours painting again, and attempted meditation until he felt exhausted enough to fall asleep.

And try not to think about her, although that was a constant reminder. The recurring dreams certainly were not helping.

Managing to complete the first of eight was the hardest. It was akin to learning a new instrument, a new piece of music, a new recipe. It was both exhilarating and frustrating how a fresh idea formed itself on the canvas from his patient, controlled hands, pouring from his mind to precise lines of color through the brush.

The first piece of his 'Nova' collection was finally finished a few weeks back and he was proud of the results. The end of life of a star erupting in a brilliant spasm of light energy exploding across the dark universe seeped its plasmatic tendrils of bubbling gas in all manner of color available to him and traveled across the linen surface, occasionally splattering onto the floor. Trying to get it to be as vibrant as it appeared in his mind, he let it take shape on its own accord, burning bright against the inky black background. Having some idea where it was going, the other pieces, though time-consuming, were not as difficult to conceptualize. Thankfully. He needed all the time he had left to finish by the deadline, only a little over a month away.

Completing his 5th work the night before, Vegeta sighed heavily under pressure, assessing his time constraints while pushing against his own personal thresholds immensely, leading to recently manifested tension in the knots at his shoulders.

Rubbing his taxed muscles smartly, he got out of bed, dressed and decided to take a small moment to himself before beginning for the day. He had found himself doing it at least twice a week, always chastising his lack of willpower for wasting time unnecessarily.

A small stack of penciled drawings looked up at him from his desk as he sat down, pulled out his phone, produced a charcoal pencil and blank sheet of drawing paper and hit play on the video queued up and viewed for the 20th time.

He closed his eyes and just listened as her voice carried through the phone's speakers in familiar dulcet tones. Without looking up, he just listened as he began to draw her face again, a new expression coming to his mind's eye. The memories alone were soothing and the act of drawing the curve of her mouth, shape of her eyes, the fullness of her cheek made the residual loneliness he tried desperately to ignore a little easier. He didn't need to watch the interview between them, hated seeing himself on the screen, but always stopped drawing when he heard the section he liked the most coming up.

"Let me ask you this: what do you think an artist's work is worth?" He heard himself say and cringed at the defensive tone to his voice. "The amount of effort and time that goes into coming up with the idea in my head, drawing it out, finding the right colors, right brushes, the painstaking precision to get the final touches to _my_ satisfaction. That is difficult to put to value. If anything, I'm being generous with the cost of my work."

Vegeta looked up then and observed her nod on the small screen, smile in her way as he paused the playback to stare at her face. She had this look of serenity, of understanding. He remembered how unkind he had been when they first met. In that moment of the first time he pulled the video up out of morbid curiosity and watched her interview him, and every subsequent time after, that look he added to memory. He was too busy speculating on her true intentions to see it at the time. She understood him. Before she knew him, before they had become friends, he was sure she understood him then.

He stared at the still image until his vision unfocused and turned away, tearing the page from the book at the perforated edge and placing it on the stack of other faces emoting memories up at him. Pursing his lips, he tried to dismiss what he was thinking and headed to the door to begin his daily run, brushing aside the nagging feeling pushed deep down in his gut that he would have to admit he made a mistake. He was sure she would never forgive him for how he'd treated her. What he said out of irrational anger.

However, he didn't have time to think about that now.


	13. Chapter 13

The creeping grey and white skies covered the suburban neighborhood in pillowy soft snowfall, leaving sizeable drifts blowing on a light breeze making the chill a few degrees colder than it actually was. He ruffled his black spiky hair with frosty gloved fingers and stomped in his icy boots, sloughing off the caked frost that had accumulated up to his ankles after shoveling the walkway leading up to the front door. The winter had been relatively mild compared to the storms of late January as it blanketed the city in a heavy blizzard with, hopefully, a final lashing from mother nature and precursor to springtime weather.

Accepting the numbness in his reddened cheeks, he shivered for a moment through an exhale on the walk while methodically scraping at the last bit of ice that remained on the concrete with the sharp metal edge of the shovel. Vegeta looked up as a dull rumble echoed down the quiet street. His body tensed with new agitation when the appearance of a white sedan came into view unexpectedly and an unwanted visitor exited the vehicle, waving a friendly arm at him in greeting. Vegeta scowled and pierced the shovel into a snowmound piled waist-high to his left with more force than necessary.

"No, no, no, no, no." He growled, his warmed, cloudy breath seeping out in angry bursts like an angry dragon.

Unperturbed, Goku made a steady approach, grinning without a care. "Hey there," He said cheerfully beneath a bulky jacket. His happy disposition dropped to concern when he was able to view the glaring artist up close. "You look awful, Geets."

Within the past three months, the majority of his time was spent indoors, paling his tanned skin over lean muscle. The lack of real meals also exaggerated his features from his typical unapproachable outward appearance to a more gaunt, menacing look, particularly distinct against his coal-black eyes.

In a fraction of a second, Vegeta grabbed the taller man around the collar with a tight, unyielding grip and glowered maliciously into his startled face. "Don't you _ever_ call me that." He warned with venom before releasing him gruffly.

The taller sculptor took a wary step back and rubbed the back of his neck with a noticeable wince. "Sorry, man." He responded, his apology sincere.

Narrowing his eyes, Vegeta crossed his arms indignantly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

Vegeta tsked loudly as he rolled his eyes. "And why would you care?"

"'Cause that's what friends do." Goku honestly replied.

"In what universe are we friends?" Vegeta quired while narrowing his eyes, wondering if the doofus would finally get the hint. As expected, the jab went over his head.

"This universe?" Goku said slowly, perplexed. With a heavy sigh, he disclosed his true concern. "I'm worried about Bulma." He admitted sullenly, getting right to the point, as he ran a hand fretfully through his disheveled hair.

Taken aback moderately at first, Vegeta pulled his expression back to nonchalance at the direct mention of the woman. "If you're so worried, go see her." He shrugged, feigning indifference.

"I did. She wouldn't come out and say it but I think she's worried about you." His typical happy disposition shifted to unease. Vegeta's mouth set to a hard line at the man's uncommon forlorn expression. "All she does is work. She hasn't left the apartment in weeks. She says she's fine and tells me to let it go but it's weird to see her so closed off."

As the taller man continued to ramble on, Vegeta half-listened while wondering if perhaps this was her way of moving on. Evidently, she had managed to occupy her time with work and didn't actively seek him out. Hell, for his own sanity, he was glad he never received a single text or call after that night. Those factors pointed to a combined effort to establish distance from the situation, just as he had done. Even within the last two weeks, he noticed the time went by smoother than the past 2 months as he had found himself gradually relieved of the lingering attachment, her influence slowly fading into the background. It was better this way.

Vegeta sighed through his nose, absolved, and looked up to find the taller man still chattering with that pleading look on his face. "She told me to not bother you. She kinda threatened me. But I wanted to see if you would talk to her." Goku earnestly put forth.

He shook his head in a resounding no. "I can't. I'm very busy."

"She is, too," He replied in agreement. "I think if you just tell her you're busy and you'll contact her after, she would understand. You know, when I'm working on a new piece, I just tell Chi Chi that I'm busy and she gets it and-"

"I don't want to hear about your relationship." He interrupted curtly, his patience wearing paper-thin. "I told you, I'm busy, I don't have time for anyone. You need to mind your own business."

The younger man's shoulders slumped. "Okay. Well, I tried." He sighed in defeat.

As Goku turned away, Vegeta was fully prepared to ignore everything his rival artist had said. He mentally dismissed it all while turning on his heel until he noticed the lack of receding footfalls on the concrete behind him.

"I know we have a strange friendship." He heard Goku say to his back. "I know you're a pretty reserved guy. But I also saw the way you two were together. I don't think I've ever seen you smile. I've never seen her happier, even if she won't admit it. I think that if you just go talk to Bulma, she'll listen to what you have to say."

Vegeta pinched his lips together at the persistent gall of the other man for meddling in his personal life. Coming over to convince him to make amends. He obviously wasn't aware that neither of them had made any attempts at communicating and Vegeta's mind was made up. He smirked incredulously to himself at the dedication of her childhood friend in trying to fix something that was beyond repair. Vegeta would never admit to anyone the stirrings of respect formed with this desperately loyal act.

Despite the conversation not going his way, Goku continued in half attempted optimism. "Congrats on your show coming up. I heard Whis is super excited. You earned it, man."

The crinkle of crystalline ice underfoot told him that his visitor was finally leaving. Without seeing his departure, Vegeta made his way to the house and locked the door, fully intending to shutter himself from the outside world.

* * *

_I deserve this, _he praised himself with a self-satisfied smirk.

The gallery was abuzz with affluent art snobs gushing about his unexpected resurgence, picking at him with questions, innocent critique and speculation of what he'd been doing in between collections. Over the past 3 maddening months, he worked his ass off to achieve the impossible and managed to sacrifice everything in the process for the covetous recognition owed to him. He wanted their attention. Needed it. Drowned in it. All his hard work culminated to this.

Yet, for the first time in his 15 years as an artist, it felt different in a way he couldn't quite identify.

Krillin mingled around the room conversing animatedly with patrons, most likely trying to drum up an offer on Vegeta's work and occasionally throwing a hopeful grin his way with promise. 18 stood next to him as his invited guest, looking bored and nursing a dry martini while ignoring anyone that came near. The circle of well-dressed onlookers, cradling glasses of champagne and reeking of overapplied expensive perfumes, widened as the proprietor of the gallery stepped forth, cane in one hand and the other extended for him to shake.

"Vegeta, congratulations, truly. Your Nova collection is just wonderful." Whis gushed in earnest, his long-fingered grip taking hold around the artist's calloused one. They both turned to the wall where his eight pieces adorned the largest illuminated wall, effectively displayed as the focal point of the room.

The extravagant event was for him. It all was for him. Yet, observing the pieces one by one, his smirk slowly dissipated to an uncomfortable dullness.

_I deserve this. _He replaced the numbed sensation with an artificial half-smile and knew the part he had to play.

"Thank you, Whis. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity. It was all self-determination and talent that went it this. As if there was any doubt." He replied confidently in attempted self-conviction.

Whis laughed jovially clapping Vegeta on the back. He continued to tolerate the noise, temporarily blindness from close range flash photography and seemingly endless flattery in exchange for the recognition of his craft.

"Humility is your strong suit," he jested good-natured. "I wouldn't have expected anything less." Whis acknowledged with a curt nod.

With only the payout to look forward to, Vegeta's interest in the festivities waned and he scanned the room airily, drinking in the praise like a potent elixir. The feeling of a God among men. They were all there for him.

_I deserve this._

Faceless admirers preened his way when his gaze drifted over a face. He had to doubletake as her eyes bore into him. Far behind the throng of bodies surrounding him, his vision tunneled upon spying the visage, framed in a high bun and teal ringlets falling around her pale cheeks, that he had tried to push out of his mind for months without success.

All other stimuli faded to white noise as he watched Bulma's long lashes crease at the corners of her eyes, her mouth turned up softly and red lips parted in a soundless 'hi'.

She showed up. For him. _Why? _his mind shouted as he felt his heartbeat pick up and throb at his throat. The only reaction he could pull forth was a returned inaudible 'hi' thickly passing over his tongue through an exhale that had been trapped in his lungs. Her smile twitched for the briefest of moments before receding, her eyes turned down in what he read as regret and she winced, abruptly turning on her heel.

He felt a sudden drop like a stone into his stomach. The sea of people milled about in front of him, obstructing his view of where she once was, and leaving only empty compliments and plastic smiles in her wake.

Immediately panicked, he took several steps after her, only to be pulled back suddenly for another photo by several art journalists salivating for a scoop to write about. Their voices blurred and he autopiloted through forced, short interviews, vision still on the vacant space near the back where he hoped she would return.

_I deserve this. _He half-heartedly convinced himself, deaf to their continued extolment and wanting only for the night to end.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: A proud nominee for the Prince and the Heiress Vegebul Writing and Art Community 2019! Thank you for recommending this story and all that vote! There are amazing stories and art up for awards and Im so thankful to be a part of it!
> 
> Just in case you haven't voted yet, here's the link:  
forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfc6duaBsOaVzJz5uVLRm9oRgWz9MtEBP6LauiNGbV32krSFg/viewform
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting and sharing! I'm grateful for the support

* * *

Tapping the steering wheel out of irritation, Vegeta contemplated his life's choices as he parked just outside the apartment complex. Up until that point, maybe a bit before, he had everything planned out. Then she happened.

_What the hell am I doing here? _He rebuked himself, a soured expression crossing his features as his gaze traveled from the apartment's facade to the grey sweater neatly folded on the passenger seat. He picked at the fabric absentmindedly.

The night before, everything initially had gone as planned. The paintings were finished, made their way to the gallery to be displayed for the showing, he had gotten the recognition from Whis just as he wanted, he was beginning to think that it was all worth it. But then, like a gust of wind blowing out a flame, she showed up and threw a wrench in the whole night. It was her fault he faltered. Her fault he cared even a little. Stupid woman.

The tire tracks in the powdery snow were fresh leading up to the back tires of her car. However, she was nowhere to be seen and he groaned to himself at how desperate he must have looked staring at the empty vehicle from inside his own truck parked a few rows back in the lot. He rubbed his fingers into his eyes. He shouldn't be there. It was stupid of him to even consider that she would want to speak to him. What would he say? She'd probably open her door to yell at him then to only have it slam in his face for good measure. She had every reason to.

_This is ridiculous. What am I doing here? _He growled loudly, loathing the fact that if someone were to pass, they'd probably think he was a stalker but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Wracking his brain over whether or not it was worth it to just bite the bullet and go up, tail between his legs and confront her, movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he looked up to spy his blue-haired vixen making her way back to her car, arms tight around herself in only jeans, a sleeveless top and unlaced boots put on in a rush, shivering through an annoyed scowl cast to the frigid ground. She yanked opened the driver's side door and poked her her in looking this way and that in the interior. At his range, she didn't notice his truck or that he was watching with curious intrigue. 

An impulse surged forward as every thought against going to see her had vanished. The awareness that he was heading her way kicked in when he felt the cold air hit his arms as he exited the truck, the crunch of snow underfoot, heard her cursing to herself getting louder, unaware of his steady approach. The soft material of the forgotten garment was tensely clutched in one hand.

She was right there. _Say something, idiot. _He opened his mouth before his brain registered how stupid this whole planned seemed.

"Bulma." He said abruptly in a low vibrato, to the only half of her visible as the other was digging around in the front seat.

He winced as her upper half shot up in sudden alarm, the back of her head impacting with the metal door frame in a sharp clang.

"Son of a bi-" she exclaimed, rubbing her crown smartly, tears brimming. She sat down in the driver's seat and glared up with one eye open. "Vegeta? What the-" she glared, cringing.

"Are you alright." He asked reflexively while reaching for her elbow in support, his eyebrows coming together in concern.

"Don't touch me, I'm fine." She hissed, still holding her head and pushing his hand away.

He rolled his eyes at her obstinance. "Can you at least let me see if you're bleeding?" He offered.

She scoffed. "Wouldn't that just top all the things that have happened today." She sneered as she turned her vexed eyes on him. "I slipped on ice this morning, found out a pair of shoes I ordered online got sent to someone else's house, I spilled mustard on my shirt at lunch and when I came back to wash it, I forgot my phone in my car and I get spooked by you being all creepy so I'm out here freezing my ass off, looking like shit, and it's possible I might be bleeding?!" She spat, shivering in her partially laced boots.

Vegeta couldn't help the whisper of a smile tugging at his lip in response to her childish tantrum and quickly disregarded the meaning of it as he held out the sweater to assuage her temper.

"Put this on." He directed calmly.

"How did you?-" She blankly stared in confusion at the garment pushed into her hands but thought better as a light breeze kicked up and she tugged the grey cotton over her head, sighing in warm relief.

"You left it at my house."

Slow realization dawned on her face. "You kept it…"

He felt the bloom of heat tinge his ears. Before she could protest, Vegeta cleared his throat purposefully as he pulled her closer, tilted her head down and inspected her scalp carefully for any visible abrasion. Grunting with satisfaction, he released her, a hand still near her face as several strands of messy hair glossed through his fingertips. Confusion still marred her features along with something else he couldn't quite place.

"Your head's fine. No worse for wear." He concluded almost clinically then changed his tone and backed away, out of reach. "You don't look like shit." He added under his breath, averting his gaze and thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Thanks," Bulma replied dubiously. "What are you doing here?"

As her scrutinizing stare looked up at him, Vegeta wavered without fully knowing how to respond.

"I wanted to talk to you." He managed. Her eyes were punishing. He hated feeling flustered, vulnerable, like his thoughts were fogged. "I don't know what to say."

Too many seconds past in awkward silence as she shivered again and glanced off at the apartment, seemingly weighing her options. He noticed he was quickly losing ground. As a last-ditch effort, he figured to show her was better than trying to talk and say something stupid.

"I have something for you." He stated in haste.

"I dunno," Bulma said as she shook her head, uncertain.

He bit his tongue at the uncomfortable position with her. He was completely out of his element putting himself on the line. Even the smallest rejection created fissures in his fortified walls. "I understand why you probably don't have the best opinion of me. And that's fair. I just…, please." He forced out while biting his tongue. He detested the fact that the conversation was edging closer and closer to begging.

She squirmed some as he waited tensely for a reply. Finally, she let out a conceding sigh. "I must be out of my fucking mind. Fine, but you better turn on the heater. I'm freezing out here." She relented, lacing her boots hurriedly. As her head was bowed, he allowed himself a momentary smile in relieved triumph.

* * *

Once the heat permeated the space between them, Bulma made a series of little groans while rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Remembering well that she had very little restraint over speaking, often at length, he prepared himself knowing she wouldn't hesitate to air her grievances. It was all a matter of keeping his own temper in check.

"I knew I shouldn't have gone to the showing." She began, more to herself, while shaking her head in self admonishment. "'Go to the show, Bulma,' 'take charge, Bulma,' 'prove him wrong, Bulma.'" She mimicked. "Stupid 18. Like I needed to go to your stupid party to prove that I'm independent. I'm fucking independent. I don't need to do anything for you." She glared at the passenger door window as the frosted trees rushed by in a green and white blur.

He kept his eyes on the road, forcing himself to not look over. Utterly confused about how to respond, he thought it better to just say nothing. And avoid eye contact.

She turned her head sharply and glared at him. "Well, aren't you going to say anything?" She snapped.

He wracked his brain for something that could quell her temper but nothing concise came. He'd been on the receiving end of arguments with women. It never seemed to work out in favor of either involved. The default had always been anger, blame, threats to leave. It would always culminate to the point where he'd double down, break up, distance himself and resolve that he was better off alone.

He knew this time was different, though.

His knuckles clenched the leather steering wheel as he exhaled slowly through his nose. "What do you want me to say?" He attempted, tight-lipped.

"I want you to tell me you're a selfish jerk." She spat and crossed her arms in a dramatic huff.

He ground his teeth silently, compelling his stubborn self to relent with extreme difficulty. "I'm a selfish jerk." He repeated through clenched teeth. He had hoped that was enough.

Bulma hardly registered his response and added to it. "And you're a conceited asshole."

"I'm a conceited asshole."

"And you're a closed-off, prideful, uncommunicative dic-"

_Fuck it. _"Oh, and you're so innocent in all this?" He bit back, having reached his limit and halting her train of thought.

She glared icily. "Excuse me? What the fuck did I do other than be a friend to you. To get you out of your head. To experience things-", she retorted, a shrillness to her voice.

"Did I ask for it? I was fine then you just show up and refuse to leave. You pushed me. You wouldn't leave me alone!"

"I was trying to help!"

"I didn't want your help! I didn't need you!" He callously spat. Immediately, he felt regret as the familiar air of saying things he didn't mean came out like hateful word vomit.

"Fuck you! You know what? Let me out." She fumed. Her hand fumbled with the door handle, opening it slightly as they passed through a residential neighborhood.

He cut his eyes to her as he jerked to a stop, tires squealing on the asphalt. "Fine!"

He balled his fists as the door opened and slammed harshly, the windows shuddering from impact.

He watched her stomp away through the windshield, quickly gaining distance ahead of him with her enraged stride along the frosty sidewalk. Grinding his teeth, he seriously considered just leaving her to her own devices. _Good riddance._

Vegeta roughly ran his fingers through his thick hair, growling in perturbation and looked up again to see her much further, a tiny version of herself on the snowy road. She was exiting his life again. The frustrating truth was made painfully evident watching her go as a sharpness hit his chest.

He cared if she left. He took a shallow breath.

"Goddamn it!" He shouted, slamming his tight fists into the dash. Opening the door, he slammed it just as loudly and went after her.

"I'm fucking sorry!" He yelled. She was still understandably bitter and angry. The emotional injuries he had inflicted had taken their toll. Remorse hit him harder. "I'm sorry." he croaked with less intensity.

Bulma had halted her pacing but refused to turn around as he approached, dragging his feet in the slushy ice. "Is that supposed to make things better?"

"No." He admitted low.

She sniffed wetly as she shoulder shuddered as she suppressed heavy weeps. "Why did you come back? I gave you space, just like you wanted." She finally faced him, blotchy red-cheeked, rivulets of cold tears wiped away repeatedly. Her blue eyes swam as she tried to maintain composure.

He swallowed thickly. "I needed to talk to you."

"Why? You left. You basically made me feel like I meant nothing to you." She swiped a lonely tear as it began to trail down her flushed skin.

"You know that's not true." He said in a hushed gravelly tone, wincing slightly.

"Do I?"

"You mean something to me. I realize that now."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a few moments, trying to collect his thoughts. He cared. Frustratingly, vulnerably, maddeningly cared. "I hurt you." He acknowledged sullenly.

She scoffed. "Yeah, no shit."

He sighed, burdened by the weight of his actions. "When I was away from you, I was able to paint a collection I knew I always could. Something I could be proud of. I was only able to do it without distraction. It's possible I could have created it while still seeing you but I was on a timetable. There was so much pressure. I was only given three months to do eight paintings, Bulma." He explained.

Her brows drew together pitifully. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have given you your space. I would have supported you."

"I needed to do it on my own and I knew I had difficulty staying away from you." He confessed. "It had to be over for me to be able to concentrate. I needed to know I could do it. In any case, you never really left me."

"That night was ruined. I was having such a good time, then it was just… ruined." She lamented softly.

"I know." He dropped his head. "I can't take back what I said. I want to start over."

He watched her take a short breath and wrap her arms around herself in comfort, running her palms on the grey cotton, mollifying her agitated state. Her gaze softened.

He held out his hand in a slow, fluid movement. "I still have something to show you. Will you come with me?"

Her gaze bore into him with hints of remaining distrust.

Until she took his hand.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where did all this fluff come from and why is it in my fic?!
> 
> Thank you so much, my lovely supports Vagus Vagus, Rogue_1102, BV4ever and Lady Red.
> 
> Enjoy!

Bulma appeared unsurprised to find herself back at his house. Three months hadn't changed much of the outward appearance yet that didn't stop Vegeta from getting nervous as she walked through the threshold after so much time had passed. He swallowed thickly at the thought of what he had to offer, unsure of how she would respond. She momentarily paused, as he brusquely sucked in air, taking her hand in the process to quell the rough tides of anxiety in his stomach. The tension that was building in his chest dissipated somewhat as he felt her moderately squeeze back. He hoped it was in reassurance. He needed it.

He steadily made his way to the forbidden part of the house and her blue eyebrows raised. "Your studio? You're finally gonna let me in your studio?" She asked, hintings of anticipation laced in her tone.

His hand gripping the doorknob, he nodded as the muscles in his cheek twitched. He'd never willingly let anyone in. Not anyone he cared about, anyway. Krillin meandered through his private space occasionally but never appeared interested or aware enough for Vegeta to feel any sort of discomfort. The agent's opinion meant very little to him. She was different. It was difficult with those he trusted. Like baring his bleeding soul within the four inconspicuous walls.

As the door opened, he watched her face go from curious intrigue to disenchantment as she looked around at what was just an art studio. She glanced slowly over the wall of tubed oils arranged by shade, a thick oak workstation covered in dry but worn out brushes spilling along its surface, some resting on the paint-stained floor below. Her nose crinkled at the stale air of lingering turpentine, unventilated.

"Why wasn't I allowed in here again?" she queried unamused and noticeably let down.

He tensed where he stood. Her crestfallen inspection of his workspace was the last thing on his mind.

"I like to keep some things private. Stand here." He responded flatly as he maneuvered her to the center of the room. Her prying gaze traveled along the small space, over every item, searching for some hidden treasure amongst the empty canvases and glossy paints to only come up empty-handed and thoroughly disappointed.

It wasn't until he strode stiffly over to one corner, the sun brightening the wall with its midday glow that she finally settled her surveying eyes on a white sheet covering an inconspicuous rectangular shape.

She wrinkled her brows together as he exhaled, gripped the sheet and in one swift movement, revealed its secrets.

Vegeta turned his head and stared at the wall to his immediate left, so as to not see her reaction. He felt his face turn beet red with embarrassment for showing something so personal to the one person who he swore he would never show. He admitted to being less than adept at saying how he felt. Painting was his outlet of expression.

_She's gonna hate it. _He cringed. _It's fucking stupid. I'm such an idiot for bringing her here. Idiot! It's awful. It's-_

"Beautiful." He heard her breath hitch.

"No it's not." he denied adamantly, folding his arms tightly across his chest with a downcast scowl.

"Yes, it is." she insisted.

It was then he turned to see the awe on her face, the glitter in her eyes that never left his mind, the smile he'd seen a hundred times, her mouth slightly parted. He finally looked up at the piece and saw what she saw.

Stretches of midnight blue sky dotted with glowing nebulous, lavender clouds that drifted along the taut linen, the birth of newborn stars occupying the void with blazing tailed comets. They propelling fiercely through inky black skies yet paled in comparison to the focal point taking up nearly 3/4th of the center of the canvas. A portrait gazed back, shaped in delicate watercolor, oil paint, and other media, eclipsing the bordering cosmos. His most famous work made inconsequential to the glacial blue outlined cheeks and pouty lips he had kissed, ocean green and aqua tresses cascading in a waterfall of waves he relished running his calloused fingers through, partially closed teal eyes gazing off-canvas beneath long lashes that haunted his dreams and his wakefulness, carrying the universe within them. Those clear blue irises were the one part he was truly proud of. He at least got her eyes right.

"It's amazing." She whispered through her hands that had found their way to cover her mouth. He watched her vision drag listlessly over every detail he had made. She saw something worthwhile. He couldn't help noticing the flaws.

"It's yours." He said bluntly, leaning up against the far wall, arms still tight across his chest.

She looked at him bewildered. With a thankful smile, she peered back at the painting in wonderment.

"Is that me?" She asked.

He grunted in conformation, scratching the toe of his boot on the blemished floor.

She scoffed, disbelieving. "I am not that pretty."

"It doesn't do you justice," he mumbled under his breath.

"It's perfect."

He raised an eyebrow in dismissal. "Hardly."

"You're so hard on yourself." She placed two fingertips gently to the raised textures of his work then pulled back with a sympathetic smile.

He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets with a groan. "I've never been very good at saying how I… feel. I never know what to say to you." He disclosed, averting his stare.

Bulma chuckled in understanding and slowly closed the distance between them. "So this was to show me?" She asked. He felt absolutely exposed under her gaze.

"More or less." He croaked out, meeting her eyes with his own furtive one.

"What does it mean?" She inquired, placing specific emphasis on the last word.

"It's for your own interpretation." He responded, avoiding the hidden truth behind it.

"No, I think I'm gonna need you to explain it to me." She pressed. He wilted in reluctance.

"This is punishment, isn't it?"

"You're damn right, it is." She grinned, her hands on her hips. He couldn't help the smile tugging at his face seeing her playful nature come through after so long.

He cleared his throat loudly and thrust out his hand near the piece as he stared at the floor awkwardly. "There are galaxies…"

"Yeah."

"And stars and comets surrounding…" the words sticking to his tongue like glue as the redness from before was coming back in full force to his cheeks and ears.

"My face." She concluded for him with a light giggle.

"Yes."

"So why put me up there in this universe?"

_You keep me grounded. _"I like you. I _still _like you." He mumbled with difficulty.

She cocked her head coquettishly. "Are you saying I'm the center of your universe?"

His mouth hung agape with humiliation. "I'm going to burn it." He said with dark finality.

Bulma outstretched her arms in defense with a gasp. "No, you won't. It's too beautiful and you know it. Besides, it's mine."

He tsked trying to hide the small smile that didn't seem to want to leave. She pursed her lips and wagged a finger at him in half-hearted admonishment.

"Don't think I'll let you off that easy. I'm still pissed."

He smirked. "I assumed. So what do you have as further punishment?"

"Well," She said in consideration. She puffed out her chest with a Cheshire grin. "We're gonna be a thing." She replied haughtily.

"A thing? Like dating?" He raised a dark eyebrow incredulously.

"Yeah. Like dating. I'd like to call you my boyfriend."

"What are we? Teenagers?"

She ignored his jab. "And you're gonna let me tell whoever I want."

He shrugged dismissively. "If you feel the need to have immature labels."

"Do you want us to be dating?" She asked directly, her hands on her hips again.

Her steady glare reduced all the ambiguity he had left. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Yes."

"Are you gonna keep being all moody when I suggest we do something fun?"

"Are you going to keep putting me uncomfortable situations and be an insufferable tease all the time?"

"I will curb my teasing and talk to you first before we do anything embarrassing if you at least meet me halfway."

He nodded to her terms. "Fair enough."

She unfurled his arms from across his chest, her fingertips trailing familiar fire along his gooseflesh skin. "Are you gonna do karaoke with me?" She eyed him coyly.

He scoffed. "Never. Not with your singing." He answered without thinking then backtracked when the fire left her fingers and presented itself in her eyes. "That should only be reserved for me to endure." He quickly corrected.

Her palms grasped at his wrists and wound them around her waist as the sly grin returned, the embers dying to soft warmth.

"Smooth. I hate to admit it but I missed your stupid face."

He chuckled into her hair as she brought her face to his neck, rubbing her cheek into his shoulder. He breathed in, lavender and vanilla scent ticking his nose with tendrils of longing. He genuinely smiled into the blue locks.

"I missed all of you."

* * *

**Epilogue**

Languid blinks of his dark eyes scoured her curves as she lay entwined in his white sheets, sleeping soundly with his tan arm around her pale middle. A travesty, he deliberated, that such a lovely creature could find solace and lay curled in her restful fetal pose on his bed used only by one in the past. The sun peeked in through half-closed blinds giving her an ethereal radiance.

Vegeta gripped her lean waist to him with gentle possession, wishing to not wake her but hold her close as he lay back down, placing his nose in the crook of her neck. His hands said all the things his reticent nature couldn't voice. He wasn't bothered by the tickle of her hair on his face or the fact that his leg had fallen asleep under one of her own. He felt only contentment.

He frowned suddenly as a melodic chirping disturbed her light slumber, her eyes fluttering open. She smiled and reached for her phone where the noise was emitting from. Vegeta growled to himself and pulled her more to him then found his irritation dissolving at her ticklish giggling.

"I have to get this." She said playfully sulking.

"No. Stay." He commanded gruffly into her naked shoulder blades.

"You're so needy. It's not like I'm going to leave. I just have to answer this call." She chuckled, pushing him back. "It's been six months. I'm not going anywhere."

She gave him a chaste kiss as she escaped his grasp, and searching for her discarded clothing. He rubbed his eyes and checked the time, smirking to himself realizing it was near noon yet he wasn't stressed over completing his latest piece.

Whis had held his end of the bargain by making him a worthy investment to the gallery, and with Bulma's consistent, calming presence, Vegeta had found his temper subdued and was able to focus more with deadlines. He mentally kicked himself for pushing her away but through her forgiveness and encouraging nature, his work became fluid, more precise and experienced. He had become a recognized painter, able to meet deadlines while still maintaining the first healthy relationship he'd ever had.

He was about to lie back down when Bulma reentered the room, a girlish look on her face as she buttoned the last clasp on her jeans.

"Get up. Get dressed." She instructed going into the bathroom, running a brush through her hair and dabbing toothpaste on her toothbrush in hurried excitement.

"Why?" He inquired through narrowed eyes suspiciously. She smiled with glee, threading her fingers through her hair. He watched with mild annoyance as she let the strands that sloughed off fall onto the floor absentmindedly. Apparently, bad habits died hard, even if she practically lived there, he thought ruefully.

"Just do it. I have something for you." She said after spitting the paste into the sink and turning off the running water.

He sighed heavily while lifting himself from the bed, donned pants and a black shirt, careful to not trip over Bulma's other discarded items left carelessly on the floor.

He followed the sound of pattering footfalls in the kitchen to see her bouncing on her heels, her arms conspicuously behind her back.

"So, as a token of you being an adequate boyfriend, I have a gift for you."

Vegeta scrunched his face doubtfully. "What?" He asked leaning up against the counter.

"Not yet. In a minute." She replied, her tongue between her teeth. "I need you to do something for me."

Before he could question further, a distinct knock came to the front door and he turned his head to the noise then shot his gaze back to her in accusation.

"Who is that? What did you do?"

Her blue eyes twinkled as she indicated with her head to the portal. Striding over, he unlatched the door and cringed as his rival stood brightly on the doorstep.

"Hiya Vegeta! Are you ready?" The orange-clad simpleton greeted with a cheery grin.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vegeta turned his horrified look to his blue-haired nymph who showed up beside him.

"You're gonna teach him how to paint." She said playfully, brandishing a new set of professional brushes and her heartwarming smile.

"Woman, I will not." he harshly whispered his objection as she thrust the brushes into his hands.

She kissed his cheek, melting the bristling apprehension as she gazed at him with her disarming aqua orbs. She didn't have to say anything as he groaned out his surrender.

"Alright, fine. But you better listen to every fucking word I say and don't say anything stupid." He directed pointedly to the taller man in warning.

As Goku chuckled sheepishly while entering for the first time, he passed the two still standing at the doorway.

Bulma threaded her hand with Vegeta's as she let out a light laugh. "Thank you."

He sneered and rubbed his cheek where she had romantically assaulted him with the back of his hand. "We are even now. I figure I've done enough to get out of the doghouse and back into your good graces."

"Consider the slate wiped clean."

"You are such a nuisance." He remarked, giving her hand a squeeze.

"You love it." She replied as she squeezed back.

He watched her saunter away triumphantly to greet her friend as he closed the front door.

She was his friend.

His muse.

His Bulma.

_Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post story AN:
> 
> This was my first one-shot. I envisioned it to be 10,000 words, no more than 5 chapters and take a week to complete. It's over 25,000 words, 15 chapters and took 2 months. Needless to say, it has turned out exactly as I wanted and I am so very grateful for all the kind and thoughtful responses to it. Your support is invaluable and I would like to say thank you for taking the time from your day to read. Looking forward to the next story! See you then!
> 
> ~Blackswans22


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